Oak Eyes
by Phantom Myst
Summary: Erik saves a young girl, and comes to care for her, but her sickening past makes it hard to trust him. RAPE. Not for the faint of heart. Later Chapters are explicit. IF YOU WANT A FULL VERSION, MESSAGE ME FOR THE LINK.
1. Chapter 1

Pain. Terrible ripping pain that spread from his heart and into his gut. Cold and steady, burning and flickering. So this was what it was like to loose the one person you loved to another man. Erik found the emotion beyond unpleasant. Not that he had expected it to be when he made the decision to release Christine to Raoul's care. The Viscount was no doubt a wealthy enough man that could provide only the best of care for Christine, but the Phantom man found himself worrying over the emotional care that the man could bestow upon Christine. Would he love her enough? Would he show her the tenderness she longed for? Would he give her music, allow her to thrive upon the one thing she loved?

Erik pulled his hood over his face even farther than it had been, to be sure that the milk-white mask was not visible to a nearing citizen. It was cold out, the breeze nipping at his nose, the damp fog of the night dimming and hazing the lit lanterns lighting the street. He knew he should not be out here, in the open, among others. But he could care less about what happened to him. All that e cared about was Christine and her comfort….

Turning blindly down an alley way, he made his way into the darker, quieter part of town. Towards the end of the alley, even in his ruined state, the Phantom's senses jerked in response to a barley heard cry. It was distressed, scared, and small. Without thought to common sense, Erik stealthily made his way to the origin of the sound. To his far left, he found the source. The form of two burly men we leaning over something, laughing.

"Given up little one?" one taunted in a gruff voice. "What have 'ya got for me, eh, yongin'?"

The second man laughed harshly. Erik's body tensed. They were beating up on some one much smaller then themselves, which anger him all in itself, but then they were heinous enough to go further in their torturing.

"How's "bout you show us what you can do, eh, li'l girl, eh? How's bout you give me a li'l kiss here andshow me what a good girl you are."

The words struck Erik to the quick. If he didn't intervene now, the girl would surly meet a horrible fate. A small cry was emitted from the young girl hidden from his sight as he saw the spoken man lean lower. Erik flew into action.

Drawing out his Punjab lasso that he had taken down from the gate that he had almost hung Raoul upon, he flew it high over his head and around the attacking man's neck. Jerking the rope with all his strength, he pulled the man to his back. The second man cried out in pain as Erik took his advantage of surprise and back handed the man, knocking him into the stone wall. A sickening crack told Erik that the blow had caused the man's head to hit the bricks with quite an amount of force. One hand still gripping the rope that held the first man fast, Erik proceeded to tighten the noose, listening almost in pleasure to the strangling sounds coming from the man. Soon, the sounds stopped, and he was silent.

Erik stood, breathing heavily, He was actually in very good shape, but it surprised him how much emotional pain could take out of you physically. He looked around himself. Searching the dark around him in hopes of finding the little girl he had rescued. He took a step to his right to look deeper into the darkness, and heard the rustle of clothing in response to his movement. He looked down, his sharp eyes making out the form of a frail girl before him, in rags. He knelt before the girl, who hid her face in her knees, pulling herself into the tightest ball she could. Erik's eyebrows pinched together in sympathy, all of his own suffering momentarily abandoned from his mind.

"Ma Chere," he spoke the French title from "little one", "I mean you no harm. Please. I want to help you." He reached out o lift her chin with his hand, but the sound of movement from the large man before her sent he arm flying up to protect her face, her breaths ragged with fear. The Phantom let his arm drop, sighing. "Please mademoiselle, look at me. Look into my eyes. I won't hurt you."

The little girl did not move for a moment but to allow her arm to relax, but then she did look up, her dark brown eyes reflecting his mask in the moonlight. He in took a sharp breath. He had not realized hat his hood had dropped form his head during the fight. He made to replace it but then stopped himself, afraid any other movement would frighten the poor girl. Besides that point, she had already seen it, and looked rather fascinated by it. Was not the point of his mask to guard what lay beneath? He looked into her eyes with his crystal blue ones, not moving, simply staring into the little girl's doe eyes.

"You see? I won't hurt you."

The little girl nodded , and to the Phantom's surprise, he head lolled back, he head making a dull thud against the wall she sat against. Erik squinted at her, attempting to figure out the girl's motive. Her eyes were closed, her mouth having fallen slightly open, her breath still torn, and uneven but not quick. Assured that she had either fallen asleep or fainted, Erik slipped his arms around the doll like body, surprised and concerned at how thin around she was, at her barley measurable weight. Christine had weighed so much more than that, and she herself had been light….

Pain seared once again through Erik's heart like a stab trough the main organ with a red hot spear. He was blinded for a moment with memory…..

Christine's face poured with tears, the sorrow in her eyes painful to Erik, but e would not give in. He would have her for his bride.

Angel of music,

you deceived me

I gave you my mind blindly.

Erik jerked the Punjab lasso, hearing Raoul choke at the motion.

"You try my patience. Make your choice!" his voice was harsh and ruff, hurt and desperate.

Erik was shaken back to the present when the child in his arms shifted slightly, then moaned in discomfort in her sleep. Again, worry for the little one took over and he rushed away with her.

It had pained him to return to his destroyed home beneath the Paris opera house, but where else was he to go with a child in need of food and shelter, and possibly medical care?

He had snuck back in from the south entrance that he had rarely ever used for lack of need, entering through a trap door, then carrying the little one through the labyrinth of corridors, along side the canals of water that ran through the lower parts, flooded years before Erik had come to live there.

Nearing his lair, he listened carefully for any noise that would betray the mob that they were still ran-sacking his home that he had worked so hard to create. Everything he seemed to care about was bang torn down around him all for the love of one woman who had refused to love him back. Shaking his head and refusing to allow memory at this point, he strained his ears. Not a sound came from his lair. Assured of its safety, he found the hidden gondola and lay the girl within I gently, afraid to wake her, and stepped in himself, picking up the long log he had carved into a creation used to push the gondola through the water easily, and began to glide the boat towards his trashed lair. The grate had remained open, and he pushed through effortlessly, then shored the gondola and carried the girl, making his way through the dark into the room where the swan bed was settled, and laid her just as gently into the bed as he had done with Christine once.

"Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dream

purge all thoughts of the life you knew before.

Let you soul take you where you long to be

only then can you belong to me…"

But Christine would never belong to him, and that he had to accept. He shoved the thoughts away as he searched for a match.

He lit a few candles near the bed so that he could see if the girl really was wounded. He lit the last candle aflame, then turned to inspect the girl. A deep anger surged through him harder and colder, towards the men he had saved her from. There was a long gash along the girl's cheek, her dress slit open, clearly with a knife half way down the front, a skimming scratch following the cut line of material, her arm bruised painfully in the markings of a large male hand. A deep sorrow for this girl iced its way to his gut as he reached out and gently turned her head so that the let side of her face was visible. As he had expected, there was a dribble of blood coming from the corner of her mouth, and her eye was already turning purple. His eyes drifted dreadingly down her body, the poor thing's rag dress revealing skinny legs that sported many lacerations and scars.

No, he resolved. He could not allow himself to die just now. Not when he had this girl to care for, when she needed him so desperately. Maybe later, after he had cared for and allowed the girl t leave, maybe then he could give himself over to the darkness, but for now, he would force himself to live.


	2. Chapter 2

Erik growled lightly, rubbing the blotting the ink out on the music sheet. The music just wasn't flowing... the notes didn't have the rhythm that he wanted… it was choppy… cold, no emotions attached. The Phantom shook his head harshly. How could the emotion NOT be coming through? The emotions of raw pain, and swirling confusion were spiraling within him, and he couldn't make the music feel the emotion…it just wasn't working! With another growl, he snatched the paper up from the oak desk and tore at it, ripping it in his immense anger. A quiet moan, barley detectable, came from the room up the stairs. Erik's acute ears honed in on the sound. It was the girl. He was waking her in his loud action of tearing paper. He stilled, allowing the bits of shredded paper float from his hands to his ground, then help his face in his hands, resting his elbows upon the dark desk, sighing. Breathing deeply, he worked to calm himself, then looked up, running his hand through his aburban wig, its authentic hair smooth under his fingers. The wig had been costly but it was entirely worth its weight in francs, becoming like the real hair he had never had, coving his thin, blond hair that receded high onto his scalp on the right side. A second moan from the girl brought him to the surface of his conscience.

Standing, he rose to his daunting six foot two height, and trotted up the short stair, pausing in the door way, observing the frail child lying among the lush red velvet sheets. Her tangled, mouse brown hair was spread about her head, accenting the bruise around her eye. Her brow furrowed, discomfort obvious in her young face and she shifted in her sleep. Erik's own eyebrows came together in a sever v above his cool blue eyes, the crystalline orbs glazed with sorrow and contained fury. He breathed deeply, and entered the room, and strode to the bed side table, where he kept a cloth, pitcher, and bowel of water. He dipped the cloth into the bowel of clear water and then squeezed the cloth so that it remained damp, but not sopping. He lay it gently upon the girl's twisted brow, and sat on the beside, with yet another sigh, wishing there was something he could do to relieve the girl's pain. He was sure that there was more extent to her injuries than he was aware, beneath the clothes, but he dare not remove them. He had cleaned her obvious wounds, but was uncomfortable with the thought of removing the young girl's clothes to clean any others. If he were any other man, he would know exactly what to expect, but…..

His life of persecution had denied him the joys of the flesh. He had never known a woman, never gazed upon the naked beauty of a woman. And as much as he wanted to help this girl, he was terrified of discovering the one thing he could not have, and would never have. Not that he thought that he would turn into one of the monsters that had hurt her, but he had unexplainable fear that refused to allow him to strip away the dirty rags that the girl wore.

He had so horribly wanted to touch Christine, to feel her skin and savor her kiss, and yet, he had never thought of how he would react if the time had ever come when he was allowed the privilege of her skin. Not that he ever thought that he would have it… he had sparked on it ever so briefly when he had sung the duet with her upon the stage licked with fake flames of red material, mounted upon a high bridge. She had been such a beauty in her Spanish stylized costume, so gorgeous….

When will the blood begin to race?

The sleeping bud burst into bloom?

When will the flames at last consume us?

The entered the bridge together, Erik hardly daring to hope that that seductive tone of voice that Christine was wearing so broadly was genuine. The strode slowly towards one another, singing in perfect unison, perfect rhythm, so much so united in song he was sure that their hearts were beating together.

Past the point of no return

the final threshold

The Bridge is crossed

so stand and watch it burn!

We've past the point of no return…"

…Erik jerked out of memory, to find himself some length of tunnels down from his lair. He had not noticed that he had continued to stride down the stairs and even out of his lair, blinded by thoughts. He shook himself, mentally and physically, forcing his thoughts clear of his mind and focusing on what he would do when the little girl woke up. Hopefully he could help her find her family again. But until she woke up, there was little he could do.

"Aren't you cold?"

A tiny voice from behind Erik spoke, startling him. He turned sharply, with an intake of short breath. The rescued girl stood at least a horse length away from him, looking at him hesitantly. He hadn't even heard her pad up behind him, which surprised him more than anything. There were few people that could sneak up on him. He scolded himself for not answering her, and worked to put a kind smile on his face.

"No, but then I am wearing a coat, aren't I?" he answered gently. "And you stand there in just rags. Here," he offered, shrugging off his black tailored coat and holding it out to her from his seat on the bench. The girl flinched back, stumbling over her own unsure feet and falling squarely on her rump. He moved quickly to help her up, but she cringed up against the rise of rocks. He sighed, leaning back.

"I'm not going to hurt you Ma chere," he assured her, laying his coat on his lap and holding up his hands to show he meant no harm. "I only want to give you my coat, if you're cold."

The light burnet stared at him, fear dimming from her eyes, but still skimming them. The Phantom looked at her, holding her gaze, watching her search his eyes. It was rather uncomfortable, unsure of what she might see in his eyes, how much his clear blue depths might reveal about him, but he dare not break her gaze, unwilling to give her the idea that he was untrustworthy. They stayed like that for the majored of ten minutes, and, as tiring as it was, Erik felt the satisfaction that it brought as the fear left her eyes almost entirely, however much they remained haunted.

Slowly, cautiously, with shaky legs, she rose and took a tentative step towards him. Erik sat statue still, unsure of how any movement may cause her to react, afraid that scaring her in any way, would bring another long time of eye searching, which, he found was rather eerie. Her eyes were deep, and would take much longer to decipher, but he didn't want her intruding on his feelings any more than she already had in those long eternities of staring. Now standing in front of him, the girl simply looked at him, waiting, unsure and ready to flee; he could see it in her stance. He looked at her with his brows sewn up in a sympathetic expression. 

"Do you want the coat, mademoiselle?" he questions softly. The girl nodded belatedly, and reached slowly, meeting his hands half way to hand her the black coat, then snatched the material quickly and backed away slightly. He smiled as she wrapped it around herself without putting her scrawny arms in the sleeves, bringing it up to her ears, snuggling in its warmth. A mile played on her own lips, savoring the sensation of warmth, which, he figured, was a rare luxury for her. Erik bit back a laugh when he scanned her image. The coat tails came down just past her knees, the shoulder not even half way filled out, drooping down. She looked at him gratefully.

"Thank you," she whispered her eyes unsure of how she felt towards him. Erik smiled.

"Think of it no more, little flower," he smiled gently, but not too wide. He was still walking on eggs; one step wrong could send her fleeting away again. "What's your name, ma chere?" the girl studied him thoughtfully, her doe eyes considering her answer, it was obvious. After a moment, she said quietly,

" Margariete." She shuffled her feet. "But everyone calls me Maggie."

"And which would you prefer I call you, little flower?" Erik asked, testing his grounds. The little girl looked at him for a long while, gazing, thinking, and then suddenly, tears welled in her eyes. The Phantom's breath caught, unsure of what to do. He stared into her eyes that were glazed with tears, wanting to bite his lip. She was closing him out, shutting the gate that had been opened momentarily; he could see that in her eyes. They became blank and cold. Shaking her head, she fled up the stairs coat and all, falling onto the bed.

Erik watched her, but decided it was best not to follow her. Se need time alone, it was clear, and for now, so did he.

The night had passed with only a short hour of sleep for Erik. The Phantom had attempted to find peace after waking from the shot nap by fingering the keys on his pipe organ, but did not press them, stroking their length, imagining their sound in his mind, silently playing a favorite tune, as not to disturb the child. He leaning into the movements of his arms, feeling the music only he could here. It was morning before he realized that he had completely lost himself in his mind, and in the process, managed to go a whole night without a thought to Christine. A short flash of her terrified face just after she ripped off his mask flashed before his mind's eyes, making him shudder. Banishing the sight, he once again began to sink into the depths of his own mind again, running his long fingers along the keys.

"Please monsieur, do you really play?"

Erik sighed gently, relief flooding through him. The child was still comfortable enough to speak to him. He turned, observing the little one before him. She looked no different physically than she did when he had rescued her, but there was something about her manor that was different, less frightened. Still, wariness glazed her eyes. She stared pointedly at Erik's chest. Erik shut his mouth, which he had opened to answer and looked down to see what had caught the girl's attention so. He almost could have kicked himself when he saw that he had allowed his shirt to loosen from his waste band, giving the material the freedom to lay open, baring most of his broad chest. He did not blame her for being uncomfortable with the sight of a ma's skin but for face and hand. He held up one finger to signal her to give him a moment, turned his back and rearranged his shirt so that it closed near the base of his throat. He turned to face her now, and her eyes relaxed, releasing the tension within him.

"You asked if I play," he reminded her, motioning to the pipe organ at which he was seated. "I do. As well as the piano, hard, violin, cello, flute… there are many things that I play."

The girl… Margariete? … nodded then widened her eyes with more and more with each instrument he listed. He smiled at the amazement on her young, wounded face. Little did she know just how much free time he had had on his hands over a life time of loneliness.

"Would you like me to play…Margariete?" he hesitated at using her name and put a questioning tone in his voice, asking permission to address her with her name. She simply nodded, and sat on the bench at his desk, cocking her head, waiting. Erik nodded and faced the organ again and began to play a song of his own composition, from his opera, which he had been working on for years, Don Juan triumphant, which had finally been performed on the disastrous day that had ruined anything and everything good in his life. Ironically, the opera had not even been finished but had only gotten to the second song.

He swayed to the music, enveloping himself in the rapture, losing himself in the softest song that he had written for is masterpiece, a lullaby, almost, that his lead female sang, the words playing out in his head. Finally, he ended, and sighed with familure comfort. Slowly, he twisted to see Margariete's reaction. The youth was in complete amazement, her face frozen in a look that told him she was impressed. But did she like the composition?

"You approve, little flower?"

"Yes, monsuire! yes!" she assured him. She looked down with a hesitant look on her face, her shoes suddenly extremely fascinating.

"What is it little one?" Erik asked gently, peering at her, but refraining from lifter her chin, afraid to touch her. She looked up at him, biting her lip.

"Would…would you play it again Monsuire?" Erik smiled softly in reply.

"Of course mademoiselle…and please," he assured her. "Call me Erik." The girl's face remained passive now, and gave only the slightest of nods to acknowlage is comment, the look in her eyes still cautious. Erik smiled now to himself, a genuine smile, one that he had not had on his face for so long he'd forgotten how wide it spread. Breathing deeply, he began to play again, his body rocking with the flowing notes.


	3. Chapter 3

The girl had settled quietly enough that night, sleeping soundly without any moan of pain for at least two hours before he had decided that a few hours for sleep himself couldn't hurt. He'd taken to watching the girl from afar, offering things to her silently, and moving carefully, roughening his panther like grace slightly. He had found that we he moved in his easy, lengthy liquid movement, the girl became more and tended to cuddle in corners until he stopped moving. For one reason or another, the easy predator like movements frightened her. Realizing this, Erik had taken to making his movements more predictable, moving slowly and with precision so that she knew what he would do next. To his relief the girl had become less wiry around him when he made this change, and spoke short sentences from time to time. Sometimes they were simple things such as requesting a drink or food. Other times she would make little sounds, just to let him know that she was still there. However there were times when she would speak in a haunted midnight voice, stating things that he rather wished she wouldn't.

"Something happened here," her voice was black velvet, deeper and smoother than her child like voice that she normally spoke in. she stood at the rise of rocks, looking over the green lake, her chocolate brown eyes fixated on the iron gate. "Pain. It's still here. Fresh."

With that, the youth turned and walked up the stairs and entered the upstairs room. No question, no inquiries. She didn't barge, didn't ask for details, which in a way, was worse than digging into the fresh wound that lay open Erik's heart. It was a simple reminder, cold and desolate, of what had happened recently. Erik's heart wrenched at the flash memory of Christine's agony torn voice, tears choking the angel's vocals. Anger surged through him as he recalled the viscount's please for Christine to forgive him for failing her rescue.

Christine, Christine, please forgive me,

I did it all for you

and all for nothing…."

Erik fixed the Punjab lasso around Raoul's neck with a furious will. How dare he beg forgiveness of Christine! Te frivolous boy should have been begging for the Phantom's forgiveness, not otherwise such as he was! Slipping the length of rope into a square space in the iron gate to which Erik had tied Raoul, he pulled the noose snuggly around the boy's neck, listening in pleasure to his gagging response.

Erik forced his focus onto the young girl as she had walked up the few stone steps. He sighed in slight relief. He was finding that fixating his mental focus on the girl fled the memories from his mind for at least a short amount of time, and for now, it was all that he could ask for.

For the first time in days, Erik slept deeply, comfortably- well, as comfortable as one could be sleeping in an armchair. He had allowed the girl to continue to sleep in the bed and found it was best to say nothing to her unless she said something to him. But now, finally, after a week of caring for the girl, Erik found that he could no longer deny himself sleep. He had settled in a large chair that a manager of the theatre from a few years back had throw out in perfectly good condition, and Erik had gathered up for himself. The quarter hour struck softly in the back of his lair by the sounding of a small clock that Madam Giry had been kind enough to buy for him upon his request. Assuring himself that he could spare just a little bit of waking time for the comfort of black oblivion, for Margariete never woke before the toll of six o'clock in the a.m., he closed his eyes and slept.

Margariete blinked her eyes heavily in the soft orange glow of the candles set upon the candelabra frame near the red velvet clad bed in which she had fallen asleep. She stretched leisurely, enjoying the feel of the oversized cotton nightwear as it ran over her fidgeting body. Never had she felt anything so comfortingly soft upon her skin in all her short seven years. Even when she lived in a house, with a family, commodious clothes were an unheard of thing. Money for food was far more important.

The man- Erik, he had called himself- that was caring for her, had given her fresh clothing for her choosing once she had become well enough to change for herself. All the clothes had been many sizes too large, but she cared naught for it, and did not question where he had gathered the clothes from. She was not sure that she wanted to know. She had found truth to be a hurtful thing, and had discovered it far too many times in her life for her to wish to seek it out.

The sleepiness had now worn out of her deer wide eyes and she found herself well rested, although still sore, and felt rather fidgety, no longer caring to stay in the bed, no mater its cozy accommodations. Walking quietly with bare feet that made no noise in the rugged carpet lay down in the room, she made her way to the yawning entrance of the upstairs. She surveyed the small home of Erik, feeling the slight dampness in the air due to the misty lake that faced it on her skin, the candles that he kept ever lit illuminating the man that slept in a large chair in the left corner of the room, just next to his pipe organ. His masculine features on the visible left hand of his face were smooth with sleep, his lips just barley parted, his breathing easy and silent. He had rapped a silken sheet around his large frame, still clothed fully in his gentlemanly clothes. She had noticed long ago that she never saw him without such, and rarely without a coat tail jacket to top the outfit off. Despite his carefulness to remain fully dressed around her, he had shifted in his sleep, the clothes tugging across his chest, emphasizing muscles that made her slightly uncomfortable.

He seemed gentle enough towards her, but there was something predatorily dangerous about this man that wore an alluring milk white mask. As much as it may have intrigued another's curiosity, she found she had no particular draw to know what lay beneath the mask; to her it was simply part of the creature that was Erik. His strength was something that she had come to fear not because he had at any time used it against her, but because of the hands that had borne strength against her from which Erik had saved her. But something in the easy way he moved, the effortless way he had ridden the men from earth, brought to her a natural fear, and yet intruigment. But no matter how much Erik had been cautious never to touch her unnecessarily, never to draw to close to her bruised body, she found herself uncomfortable in the presence of the silky way he strode and moved about his home, which, she had appropriately named in her mind, his Lair. It had been a fitting title for the place, the definition being the home of a wild animal.

Instinct had her curling in the farthest parts of the lair when Erik moved restlessly about the cave like home, unsure of what he was about to do next, fear over riding logic that told her that he had not yet, and more likely then not, never would, hurt her in any way. She had noted that he became rather unsure of himself when he caught notice of her constant hiding, and his movements became slower and easier to see what his limbs' next destination was. She had become easier in this new Erik's company, and found herself, though never allowing him to come too close, easily moving about the lair herself, confident that she could hear Erik's movements around her.

Now she stood next his sleeping form, having softly pattered down the stone steps and to his side. Never before had she allowed herself this close to the creature that seemed to be one with the darkness, with the night. Her heart was beating in a slightly heavier and quicker fashion in her chest, and in the depths of her mid stomach, she felt a ball of tingling sensation that she always felt when she was afraid. Despite her dread that was spreading through her, she could not pull herself away. His mask shone brightly in the candle light, but she paid it no mind. His smoothly shaved cheek was what drew her attention, which seemed odd, even to her. But she couldn't resist reaching out her hand to whisper her index finger across the slightly pale skin, feeling the texture of the not yet visible beard that was just coming through the skin only for Erik to shave off. The skin was not warm beneath her fingers, but neither was it deathly cold. It was cool, kept slightly heated by the candles near him. Her finger skimmed lightly across his jaw, barley touching it from time to time but all the same following the definite line of his chin, then stopping to just barely inspect the cleft chin slightly closer. She had never been so close to a man in such gently close proximity, but his features were entirely absorbing of her interest. The dip in his chin was an utter mystery to her, a feature she had never before seen on a man, which she assumed, meant it was a rare characteristic.

The girl leaned forward shakily, her heart now racing in her chest, and her legs instinctively ready to run, but locked her eyes on the details of the contours of Erik's chin.

With a movement so quick, so easy, Margariete did not even had time to gasp, Erik had grasped her wrist roughly, knocking her away and onto the floor before leaping up from the chair disregarding his sheet and standing with his hand holding his mask securely in place. Terror rose up in Maragriete's chest and she huddled, drawing into herself as she had the first time that she had seen Erik's face floating before hers. Tears flowed down her cheeks as she gasped for air, a ball tightening in her throat, making it so utterly hard to breath. She stared up at the man that had cared for her these past days now with a fresh horror, despairing in the knowledge that, even he too, could throw her aside without a thought, or injure her farther on a whim. Had her mind not been fixed on watching his movements, she would have wondered why his hand had so desperately continued to cling to his mask.

Erik's eyes widened in realization that it had been not an intruder, or even Christine that had been so close to removing his mask, but little Margariete, who now gazed at him in utter fear. A cold agony spiraled down into his core as he looked at her just waiting for a blow from his hand that had thrown her away so violently. It was all too much like the occurrences with Christine, his flinging her away in fear that his scarring deformation would be revealed. He had been able to redeem himself just enough to gain confidence over Christine then, but now looking at Margaritete, he was not sure that forgiveness would come so easily from her. His breathing was harsh with guilt and utter disgust with himself. He looked away, letting his hand drop from his cold mask and to his side with a heavy sigh. She was only a girl, too young to understand what hid behind the mask. And it had only been in instinct that he had thrown away the hand – no, the body- that was so near to his own, so close to his secret. He turned slowly to the girl, his movements no longer requiring attention to be jagged and irregular.

Margariete looked at him with tears flooding down her young, gaunt cheeks, her healing black eyes puffy from the salty drops of water leaking from it, and making her look deformed herself, and Erik hated himself for it. He crouched low before her, meeting her eye level though his knees screamed in protest of the tight position in which he held himself. She cringed away, with a small gasp, her eyes squeezing shut for moment before opening again to stare at him in aching breaths that tore him to the quick.

"Please, Margariete," he said with a soft, shaking voice that he could not control. "I meant you no harm. I never did. I thought you were another, and instinct took over." The youth shook her head vigorously and said with a quaking voice,

"Please, don't. Don- don't touch me. Get away."

Erik's eyes welled desperately with tears themselves, but he dare not let them fall. He would not show weakness to this girl who needed a strong stone in her life where she had none before.

"Please, Margareite- Maggie..." his voice was rapturously shaking almost to a point where he could not decipher his own words. Margariete took a shuddering breath and pulled away even more, drawing back into herself all that she had revealed about herself before.

"Don't call me that! All you want is my body!" she screamed; rage seemingly fresh in her voice, though Erik painfully guessed it had been there before longing to be released. "That's all men ever want!"

The words stabbed Erik through and he nearly gagged on their meaning. Never, would he inflict such pain upon this girl that had come into his life so abruptly, and, surprising himself, he had come to care for so deeply. Yet she knew nothing else, had known nothing else.

"I would never hurt you, Margareite," he begged with a choking voice. "Have I ever laid an ill meaning hand upon you?" 

The girl glared at him with shining eyes, rage shooting from them like darts into his soul.

"And yet you so easily throw me aside in instinct! How am I to know that you would not just as easily hit me when you're mad?" her voice was so childlike, her wording changing from the vocabulary of one much older than she to the child that lay within but was rarely shown. Erik looked down in silence at a loss as to what to say. Finally, he looked up at her again, shaken momentarily at the anger and bordering fear towards him that surrounded her meek body.

"I will make a pact with you," he promised in a rough, but steadier voice. "If I ever lay a hand upon you in any way but to help you, I swear to you that you may go free, without propitiation in any way, if you in return promise to stay with me and care for you until you are fully well."

The distrust in her eyes betrayed to him that she didn't believe he would follow through with his promise before she spoke her spitting words.

"I don't really have a choice do I?"

Erik's body shook in a swirl of utterly despairing emotions as he rose, watching with regret as he saw her scuttle back slightly, studying the movement of his feet, as though he might kick her. He backed away from her, his body in a submissive passion, shoulders slightly hunched, head down.

"You are free to leave when you please ma chere, but do not doubt that you are safer here then on the streets."

Moving as though his limbs were made of lead, he drug himself to his organ and sat upon the bench heavily, his hands on the wood beside him, his head heavily down as though weighted down by a ship anchor Behind him, he heard the hurried movements as margariete fled to the upstairs room, but his ears heard no trace of her tumbling into the bed, but rather picked up the sound of her small body slamming against the farthest wall, and the soft sounds of her stifled sobs of pain and fear.

I've got more but I'll but more up after I get sum reviews!  
R/R PLEASE.  
If you have suggestions MAKE THEM. Thanks all!


	4. Chapter 4

Erik pounded out the notes of the theme song that he had composed for his Don Juan Triumphant, angrily slamming his feet down on the worn petals of the organ, his fingers aching from the constant wear that he had put them through the past night. He had discovered now his only way to escape his mind was to fall into the rhythm of the vibrating sounds emitted from the organ's pipes, the harrowing notes souring and thundering through the small cavern. There was nothing but the lightning sounds coursing through his veins like fire searing through his soul, his eyes closed so that he saw nothing, heard nothing, but the pure passion that wrought it's way out of his mind and into his fingers pouring out over the ivory key board. It was all or nothing with Erik. Everything in his life had been all or nothing. Pain or complete and total emptiness; pure ecstatic joy, or white hot rage. Complete rapture in music, or no sound at all. It was all for something or nothing for nothing. Everything had a reason and out, cause and consequence. Everything had a price. Everything. His face; a life of hatred. Music; His soul's only comfort. Christine; an eternal slash across his soul's fragile heart. Margareite; once again misunderstood, but this time the misconception was brought upon himself. Everything has a price.

Maragarieite sat huddled ageist the stone wall, wincing as the hard music rang though her ears, the wall vibrating behind her, quavering her body. Somehow, the music comforted her though. It was as though it was expressing the pain inside her, relieving her of the duty of expressing the pain, sorrow and despair that wrought within her little body. It was so cold, so bone chillingly cold, her skin rising in goose bumps on her arms and any other part of her body revealed to the cool, damp air around her. Earlier she had stripped off her long sleeved layer, knowing that when she lay down in the bed she would be covered by the satin blankets. She had not thought to slip the longer robe on when she had approached the sleeping Erik in her one, vital mistake that had cost her everything she had gained. Now she shivered uncontrollably, but was unwilling to move, fearful that the movement might cause a distraction for Erik from his music, and therefore angering him. She did not want to chance making him angry and this time have his rage lash out at her.  
She shuddered at the memory of the tone of his begging voice, pleading with her to forgive him. But it was too soon. He was asking for the one thing that she could not yet give to any man that so much as make her feel the slightest bit uneasy. They were all the same. Cold, lying, unfeeling bastards that wanted more than she was willing to or should have to give. Some just took her without thought, without warning, slapping her into silence, others taking longer, biding their time until the knew that could come close enough that she would not fight until it was too late. She did not understand the need or the use of this hurt. A man's shaft sheathing inside a woman's body. It hurt so much….it was always harsh and tearing…it was always painful. The horrid feeling of the men inside of her, moving above her…all of this, and she still did not yet figure out how any of it worked, why any of it worked, and why it cost her so much pain and pieces of her soul that were ripped from her each time a male slammed himself into her. She had thought for a time maybe, just maybe if se could understand why then maybe it wouldn't hurt as much. But no matter how much she tried to puzzle it out, all she could focus on was the pain, the agony, and the realization that she was just there for their use.   
She wanted to forgive Erik, but she couldn't, and after seeing that terrible rage flash in his eyes and the way he so effortlessly threw her aside, she was terrified one day she might provoke his anger even further. When she had spoken so harshly to him, she had been sure that he would back hand her, but seemed to have no control over her mouth and what came out of it, like she was just a ghost of herself watching her body fight back where she never could. She couldn't look at Erik as he had spoken to her in that shaking, choking voice. If anything, she was sure that it was his pleading voice that had sent her into an uncontrollable rage. A man, asking for her forgiveness when men took so much from women? It was like stealing something from your best friend and then asking for their forgiveness while refusing to give back what you stole.  
It was all utterly useless. All of it. She didn't even know what she had to live for anymore. She was certain that sooner or later she would become Erik's exclusive pet. It was inevitable. She was there, trapped in his home not knowing the way out with no one to help her. There seemed to be no other option.  
In her pain and anger, she had forgotten how Erik had come about taking her in.

Erik slammed his hands down on no particular notes upon the milky white keys beneath his fingers in utter rage at the world, the organ protruding a hideous mixture of miss-matched notes. Finally, after a full night or playing the music in an attempt to soothe his soul, Erik slumped, defeated, his breath harsh as he emitted half sobs, his eyes dry from tears. The world was a hideous place, and the people in it were horrendous creatures to do such things to a child. He himself had experienced the world's cruelty at a young age first hand, but never would he know exactly what this child must have been through. It had not occurred to him tat she might have been advanced upon before his rescuing her, but now the suspicion stung at him that she might have been forced more than once into a grown man's bed. In which case, that would explain the scars that resided upon her arms, legs, shoulders, and even one he had noticed one day, upon her neck; a thin pearl collar around the thin width of her young neck, looking suspiciously like the skin had been rubbed raw by something placed around her neck. He had been shocked when he had noticed it two days ago hen the girl had stretched, allowing her head to fall back and reveal her neck. But at the time he had simply refused to accept that some one had done that purposefully to such a tiny little thing without defense, that perhaps she had come across the injuries by accident, knowing that life on the street for the poor was not safe, especially of a child. But now he was coldly aware that the marred skin may have been linked to something else other than street dangers.  
In the next room up the stairs he knew sat a hurting child that needed guidance to understand that not every male was evil, that not all males lived simply to rape young girls. But now it had quickly become apparent to him that that was her only experience with men, and it ripped him through the gut like a fire hot sword tearing through his belly. It was no wonder that she had been so extremely terrified of any unexpected movements. He had thought before that it was just immediate fear caused by the men who had been beating on her when he had saved her, and that she would grow comfortable with men again in time. But it was so much more than that. So very much more. It seared him like a hot coal dropped down his throat when he thought the amount of just what he was unaware of that dappled her life with horror. And he wasn't sure that he wanted to find out. What he did need to find out now, was what he could do to earn back the girl's trust.  
Moving carefully, easily, he made his way to the bedroom in hopes of maybe sitting on the opposite side of the room until the girl became accustomed to his presence again. But upon reaching the door, his eyes fell up the girl in the farthest corner of the room, her body curled up, her hands over her head, gripping locks of her marmalade brown hair. But she was no longer weeping, and by the sound of her breaths and the up and down movement of her body, Erik was sure she cried herself to sleep. His throat gripped once, tightly, at the knowledge that he had caused those tears. Inspecting her body more closely, he could see tat she was shivering, and in paying the temperature of his lair special attention, noted that the stone caver had become rather cold over night. He longed to gather her up and place her in the bed, wrapping warm sheets around her trembling body. But he feared what terror his touch might instill in the girl, and hesitated with his decision.   
After a moment of thought, Erik gather a number of cherry red velvet blankets from the bed and strode over silently to Margarieite's sleeping form. Carefully, he lay the sheet over her, tucking the edges in deftly, cautious not t touch her body in more then a feather light glance as he did so, then stood, observing his work. Sufficient enough without waking her and scaring the poor child, he decided. It would keep her warm until she woke. Nodding in an attempt to make himself feel better in the knowledge that he at least had given the girl a small comfort in one way, he walked to the other end of the room at lit two candelabras in hope that the flames would warm the room, then sat, in an intricately carved wooden chair against the far wall, but placed so that he could still see the girl, and sighed despairingly. He just hoped beyond hope that he could gain back the – affection? No that wasn't the right word. He had ever seen any proof that the girl felt any affection towards him. Trust maybe; yes, that was the right word, trust- that he had earned before.

"Time erases memories… but not the ones you want to get rid of….funny how that works, isn't it?"  
Margareiete couldn't remember where she had heard the words, but she found them so true, even at her young age. But then, at this point in her life, they weren't memories... they were living nightmares waiting for their next chance to spring. And that next chance to live or die in Erik. All in all, her fate came down to Erik, and it terrified her. He had only proven himself more unpredictable than before, and now she was not sure in any way what his motives were.  
Her eyes were open, but her face was hidden in the shadow of her arms, guarding her in darkness it seemed. Ah, to be enveloped by darkness was a mercy she reveled in. It was so easy to momentarily give herself over to the darkness, to be embraced by the black oblivion without sight, thought…or feeling.  
NO, not without feeling. As much as she wanted to numb the emotions that constantly coursed through her seven year old body, hate pain, fear, none of it ever ceased to plague her.

Erik sat in the chair across the room, had been sitting for quite a time, watching the sleeping body with glazed eyes. After a time he had stropped paying special heed to Margareiete and had drawn inward into his own thoughts ad memories.

"Wandering child,  
so lost  
so helpless  
yearning for my guidance…"  
Christine's crystalline voice rang out through the graveyard, the mist around her enveloping her like his seduction he knew he spun around her well. Erik looked at her from the corner of the roof, never allowing her to see me as she replied to my call.  
"Angel or father,  
friend or phantom,  
who is it there staring?"

"Have you forgotten your angel?" he murmured almost bitterly, but fought to keep my voice pleasant. Having her know of human ruin everything, remind her that he was just a man, not angel, nor daemon, nor ghost, nor phantom, but…..Erik. A man.

"Angel oh speak,  
what endless longings,  
echo in this whisper..."  
Christine's voice begged for me to answer and so Erik did, with the most enticing of voices.

"Too long you've wandered in winter  
far from my fathering gaze…"

Christine's eyes searched the large grave of her father, gazing, peering into the steal doors, looking for the voice, but had remained hooked upon his every word.

"Widely my mind beats against you  
but the soul obeys…..  
Angel of music \  
I /you denied you  
Turning from true beauty  
Angel of music do leave me  
Come to me strange angel….."

The two had sung in one unison, the beats of our hearts pounding in the words as we sang of one mind, one spirit…..

At last the little body stirred across the room, taking him back to the present just before the young boy, this Raoul, had intercepted his plan….. Erik sighed quietly, letting go of his bitterness. He could not allow himself to be bitter around Margareiete. Erik did not know that if the rule for when one rode a horse, of showing fear and therefore causing fear in the horse, applied to human girls who had been so terribly hurt, but he felt sure it would be wise to follow this guideline. It was extremely important to be as cautious as possible around this young girl, who was rather like a skittish filly attempting to get her feet beneath her to run away from the horrors that chased her, imagined or real.   
If only he could know exactly what horrors she ran from. Rape, beatings, and perhaps deliberate starvation, he was sure, but what had brought such things down on a seven year old girl? Where were her parents when all this had been happening to her? Had she no friends, no protectors of any sort?  
There was more than just the pain of physical abuse in those mahogany eyes. The fear that seemed to over ride thought skimmed her eyes constantly, but in the time that she had locked him down in her gaze, ad he had studied her eyes as well, he had deciphered more than fear. There was an emotional agony, a haunted quality that told him she was running from far more than he had gathered at the time.

Margariete sat still in complete darkness, no longer cold; she noticed, due to the blanket around her shoulders, the smooth material shifting against her tender skin as she stirred slightly. She heard a soft sigh come from across the room, and fear immediately gripped at her throat. Why had he followed her into the room? She didn't remember him entering, but then she remembered being cold and now she had a blanket wrapped and tucked around her. The only conclusion dawned on her and utterly confused her. Erik was the only one who could have done his…. It did not seem highly unlikely as he had cared for her well the past week she had spent with him, but something about the previous night had shattered that trust that she had gained in him…  
"I had hoped to move you to the bed so you could sleep more comfortably," Erik's baritone voice was gentle, soft, almost tentative, "but I wasn't sure how you would react at the time."  
Margareiete didn't' answer, simply stared at him, her body tensed fustily. Even if he made a move towards her, there would be no way she could manage to escape him quickly enough o evade him when she was in the position of a tight ball. He would be upon her in a second. Slowly, cautiously, Margareite stretched out her body to a more flexible position, the sat, observing Erik's large form in the chair placed in the corner of the room, directly diagonally from him. He seemed relaxed enough, and he wasn't moving, simply looking at her, clearly expecting an answer, although there was something about the air around him that told her he was uneasy about something as well.  
"Thank you," she murmured softly, almost incoherently, "for the blanket. I was cold."

Erik strained to hear what she had said, but her voice was so small, it was impossible. Ah well, at the moment what she had said was not really of importance. The fact that she had spoken to him was all the reassurance he would receive for now, and he knew it. I don't want to hurt you damnit! He wanted to scream his frustration, but no, that would only make things worse. Take what you can get, he reminded himself bitterly.


	5. Chapter 5

So we're back at the staring line, Erik thought to himself as he nudged a plate of cheese and bread before Margarieete, straining in his attempt to stay clear of touching her, from behind. He'd been careless when he'd approached her with the simple meal, coming from behind and planning to bring it over her shoulder and set it in front of her. She'd jumped when she glanced his hand over her shoulder, but thankfully did not run. Erik shook his head and almost huffed at the thought that the Phantom of the Opera was acting the part of a waiter.

The girl politely waited for him to sit down and started picking at her food, taking tiny bites out of her bread. Erik almost growled his frustration. It was almost as if she were trying to starve herself. The past three days she hadn't finished her meager meals, and no matter how much smaller he made her portions, she ate even less every day. What was she try9ing to do? Why was she denying herself food when he knew she was hungry? He'd heard her stomach growling all night.

"Aren't you hungry?" he asked gently, keeping his voice soft. The girl's head snapped up, fear shifting in her oak eyes.

"I- I am," she stammered. "I just…"

Erik waited patiently, but sighed when she didn't continue, simply staring down at her food. He bit hard into his slice of thick bread and chewed, grinding his teeth. He wasn't angry with her, just frustrated. How was he to help her when she was so terrified of him?

Margareite shook uncontrollably, feeling the frustration rolling off or Erik in title waves. She was sure that he was unaware of just how easy it was to read him mood when he felt something so strongly. But this mood she did not understand it's reasoning. …frustration? Why frustration? Because she was scared? But wasn't that what they wanted? Fear?

Flashes of memory scrambled her mind momentarily, her heart surging to life in rapid succession. The anger that had surfaced the other night broke to the surface, focusing on Erik.

Erik felt the spears of rage slam into him as her eyes rose and focused slowly on his form before her. His mouthful of food caught in his throat, and he swallowed painfully. What had he done to trigger he anger? All he had done was ask if she was hungry. His brows pinched together as he looked at her. He wasn't afraid of her. He could certainly defend himself against a little girl. What he did fear is what he might have to do to her if it came down to physically subduing her. An accident might cause a twisted ankle or wrist. And that would do him absolutely no good in the trust case.

"Are you planning to use me?" a velvet voice darker than the blackest night in the lair sang out from her, causing shivers to tremble down his spine. HE hated it when she used that voice.

"W-what?" he stuttered, caught off guard.

"Are you going to use me as your pet?" she repeated darkly. "To give you pleasure when you wish for it?"

The sight of the food on his plate before him, made Erik want to gag. SO that's what she thought of him. The cold pit that had formed when he had thrown her away rekindled within the depths of his stomach. He had never thought of doing such a thing to the girl, but how was she to know that when that was all she had known?

"No!" he exclaimed raggedly after choking on the last bit of food going down his throat. "Lord, no! Margareiet, why ever would I do that?"

The girl looked at him across the table, terrible hate waving out from her and washing over him. Her eyes never blinked, simply stared straight and true into in like knives extended into his heart.

"Think about it Monsuire Erik," she answered slowly, like a black widow approaching it's pray. "You're down here alone all this time-" don't remind me, Erik thought dryly-" and now you have a girl down her to your pleasing. What more could you want?"

Erik's mouth opened and closed many times before he managed to apply his vocal chord's to his mouth's movements.

"You are a young girl, a child," he assured her brokenly, his voice tight. "I am a grown man. Grown men don't lust after young girls," then, after a moment he added, "Respectable, righteous men. Honorable men. Not those monsters that hurt you."

The girl eyed him warily, coldly, but the anger was ebbing away. Erik's relief at this slightest of change rumbled through him and he almost smiled but caught himself. He didn't want her to misinterpret the smile. HE nodded to her with a firm nod the put a definite meaning to what he had said.

Margareiete stared at the male before her, utterly confused. She didn't understand. What else could he possibly want her for? Slavery? And yet…. He was so deceivingly kind and gentle. NO! she soldered herself. She could not allow herself to trust him. The last time she had trusted a man, he had done to her what the others did. And so it had only hurt more when he did it. He had betrayed her trust. Her love. She had given her child's heart to him, and he had slashed a dark wound within.

Monsuire David Cowelle had been from England, taking to living in Paris after his mother had died in London. Hoping to get away from the death, the young man, who was in his late twenties, had come to board in the house that Margareite had been hiding out in for two weeks. No one knew she was there, and blamed missing food on stray dogs and rats. But it had been Monsuire David that had caught her one day, snatching food from his plate when he ate outside one day and had momentarily left his plate sit. He had willing ling allowed her a fair share of his meal and slowly gained the child's trust. Soon she came every day to talk with him and was given the privilege of calling him by the formal nick name of Davey.

Sometimes the young man would take her up to his room and read to her from books, and even taught her some of the alphabet. He had been a good kind teacher, and she had come to fear the man in no terms whatsoever. But after three months, he started becoming too close for her comfort, though at first she paid it no mind, her child's love for Davey enamored with the gifts he bestowed upon her. As time went on his advances towards the young girl became more than uncomfortable until one day she had clearly told him she didn't like it when he laid his hand between her legs when she was on his lap. The young man's first show of rage had burst out in all its hideous glory, and he had done to her that night what the pothers had done before him. She swore to herself that night that she would never trust nor love again.

Margarieite stared at Erik before her now without a clue as to how to define this man. Since when did her being a child matter to males? Honorable men? Davey had been what one could call an honorable gentlemen and yet he had still lain himself upon her. Then a sudden thought came unbidden o her mind in a flash of resentment.

"How dare you call yourself an honorable man?" she asked harshly, unable to control her words. "When you threw me aside, what that an honorable thing to do?"

Erik looked at her as if she had struck his face. Utter surprise, then guilt played coldly across his face. He looked down at his plate, sighing.

"I do not proclaim myself an honorable man, Margareite," he answered her quietly. "There are things I have done in the past that I regret more than anything and were all but gentlemanly behavior. But I have never raped a girl."

Rape. Such a strong word. Cold, harsh. Even to the ears, it was not just a meaning, but a harsh word. Everything about the word and its meaning were terrible, and he hated using the word. Almost as terrible as his face it seemed. As the years had gone by, Erik had judged everything against his face, how much better or worse it was than the deformation that marred his skin, and he wondered if he would do that until his dying day.

But he needed to defend his rezoning for throwing her aside in a need to protect his mask from being separated from his face. If the girl saw his face….

"When I threw you aside Margareite," he continued in a guilt ridden voice," I had reason to believe you wished to remove my mask. And for reasons that I rarely discuss with others, I prefer to keep the mask on. It hides from the world a terrible thing that I prefer stay hidden. But I never meant to hurt you Margareite."

Margareite looked at him, unmoving, eyes questioning, but not focusing upon his mask, yet rather on his face as a whole. She jerked her head from her stiff position that she had held the past few minutes, with a slight shake of her head.

"I never wished to remove it, Erik," she said, her voice slightly forgiving, or so he hoped. "It is just…part of you. I never wondered what was underneath."

Erik's brows pinched in a questioning look.

" What were you doing then?" he asked, now genuinely interesting in her reasoning for being so close, propping his chi on his hand.

The girl looked down uncomfortable, starting with several, "ah"'s before finally answering,

"I don't really know. I saw you sleeping there… and I was curious and I guess I wanted to see what a male's face was like up close. I never really got to see a male's face up-close without him moving."

Erik almost laughed, but didn't when he realized what double meaning the words could take on. He did find it extremely ironic however that all o this had been over such a simple thing. Such a simple thing that would still have a long way to healing and he knew it. The problem was, did Margareiete know that it had a way to go at all?


	6. Chapter 6

Christine shook uncontrollably despite the heavy many layered quilts that lay atop of her, the sweat trickling down her temple making her shiver anew. She coughed heavily, her throat voicing its complaint in the raw lines that the coughs created, stinging and burning profusely.

"…. Thank you so very much Doctor Dubois," Raoul's voice drifted through the heavy oaken doors as the two men, one her husband , the other the docor that had just been in to treat her. Raoul had led him down the hall to his office to pay him his due, and was now escourting him to the door.

" She is in the center of the storm Monsieur DeChangey, but it will pass quickly, so long as she receives regular treatment," the doctor answered in his cultured voice, deep, and none too soft. Christine winced as the sound resounded heavily against her throbbing head.

"Well it would be much appreciated if you could come here every fornight or so?" Raoul's voice was carefully measured, quiet and refined.

"Oh, no, monsieur, she would require a nightly check sir."

"Ah," Raoul's voice was beginning to fade now. " that would not be too strainious?"

"No, monsieur. I will be completely careful to be sure she is well rested during my time here…." The voices were almost unaudible now. "…nightly check on health….weekly bleeding…" The voices had completely faded now.

And for that Christine was glad. She shivered again, but not because of her cold sweat. The bleedings were painful and absolutely pointless so far as she could tell. It hurt and it only caused her to feel drained afterwards. Sighing and pushing such thoughts from present mind, Christine relaxed against the plush pillows, her hair sticking to her cheeks, drenched in sweat. She caught the distant sound of the large doors down stairs as Raoul closed them behind the doctor. And good ridence, Christine thought to herself.

Raoul's footsteps neared her door now, the brass doorknob turning on one end of the double doors and her handsome husband walked in. His hair was tied back with a black ribbon, his wear representing his riches, but fashionably, rather then the obnoxious dress of others of the aristocratic families of Paris, France. His face was young, his nose narrow and delicate, his cheeks smooth with youth, but his pure blue eyes were tribute to things that had happened to him and the life he had risked to save Christine's. Christine smiled weirily.

Raoul smiled gently back and strode to her bed side, sitting cautiously next her her, and taking her hand. He sighed, his brows furrowed.

"Your cold." Christine shook her head slightly.

"No," she answered quietly. "I'm hot." She fought off a smile when he clenched his jaw. He looked so much like Fermin when he was angry when he did that. "Raoul, don't worry. As the doctor said, I'll be fine with nightly treatment."

Her husband nodded heavily, leaning forward to touch his lips to her drenched forehead. Drawing back Christine now could not surpress a weak giggle when the sweat from her skin glistened on Raoul's gentle lips. She reached up with a great amount of effort and brushed her thumb along the lines of his mouth. Raoul chuckled and wiped her brow tenderly with his fingers in return.

" Things will turn out fine, Raoul," Christine assured him with a tired voice. "You've givenme the best doctor money can-" but her sentence was cut off sharply by racking coughs that caused her body to jolt forward harshly. Raoul reached forward and supported her shoulders to stop the hard, wrenching, jerks of her body as she coughed. After a time, the coughing subsided and Raoul lowered her carefully onto the stack of pillows. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing heavily, her chest falling and rising rapidly, her breath sounding ragged. Raoul spotted a small pitcher of water and a glass cup stood on her bedside table that he was sure one of the maids had placed there. Pouring half a glass of the water, Raoul supported Chritine's head, placing the glass to her lips. Christine gulped heavily, and coughed slightly when she took the liquid int oo quickly, but once she had downed the half glass her heavy bresathing had subsided substancially.

Raoul's eyebrowns pinched drastically as he gazed at Crhistine's pastey color. Christine opened her eyes again, meeting his.

" You look so much like Erik when you do that Raoul. Please stop," her voice was pleading. It was painful to think about Erik. His face. His voice….that voice.

That unearthly angelic sound that resounded from the heavens themselves when he sang. Those harrowing vocals as they had washed over her like water from the sea washes over the sandy beach, smoothing over the crevices. The thought that some how the Phantom had managed to deceive her into believing he was not only her father's spirit, but The Angel Of Music! Shehad never quite figured out how he had managed it. Christine had never been the most shrewd of mind, but she considered herself intelligent enough to spot a trick when she saw one. But this man… this angel… this phantom of music had drawn her in so completely it had almost cost her her sanity, and her lover's life. It was cold, the whole truth of it all, the idea that all of this could have actually have happened. 

"Afraid that my eyes will become those of the Phantom's, Christine?" Raoul asked in all seriousness, his voice smooth and wonderful; a lover's voice. Not a phantom's voice, but a lover's. Real and genuine. "I assure you that neve shall my eyes blaze with the fury of a mad man Christine. Never again shall I let that lunatic, or any other harebrained man seduce you into trickery."

Chistine moved her head to nod, but her headache had worsened with her bout of coughing, and the slightest movement o her neck caused pain to shoot through her pounding head.

"Don't," raoul instructed. "Don't try to move,. I know."

Standing, raoul rounded the large king sized bed and lay down beside her, molding his body to her own. Sighing contentedly, Christine closed her eyes as her husband brushed back her wet hair from her face, layed a simple kiss upon her lips, and pulled her close. Christine snuggled back, burying her paining head into his neck, and drifted to sleep


	7. Chapter 7

Erik once again his his masked face behind a large hood, tugging it around his face protectively. More then once, a passer by would knock shoulders with him, one accidently trod on his foot, another, with a abby stroller yelled at him to move aside. Each rude encounter left Erik desperately wanting to shout at them, but he forced himself to deal with a low growl to satisfy his frustration. Perhaps it was better being stuck down in that damp, dark lair….. a could memory of being out in the open as a child, his face unguarded by anymask, and the harsh shouts of children as they jeered and taunted, the horrified screams of mothers who bundled up their children and hustled away quickly. It had beeen a mistake that had led to his mother selling him to a Gypsy fair out of desperation, and lack of anything else to do with a hideously deformed son. No. life was preferable away from the screams of terror and insults being tossed at him along with the rotten fruit.  
Erik dodged another person that hurried past without a word of apology, muttering to himself. The things he did for Margareite….the things his risked for that child. She would be the death of him one day. In the past three months that Margareite had stayed with erik, she had slowly, but surley become more accustomed to erik, and even gotten to te point where she could touch him in small ways; a brush of the hand in passing an object, the grasp of an arm as she tripped once, and other small whispers of trust gave erik more room emotionally to maneuver around the girl's eternal wounds. However, the Phantom dare never touch her of his own choice. He never even thought to touch her upon his own initiation for fear that she may clam back up into a hell that she had proved she could lock herself into quite efficiently for some time. However much she had healed phisiclly, however, Erik could not cure all the pain, and the leg that had been injured had been giving her problems recently the past few weeks. Thus his trip to town to purchase whatever pain medicine he could.  
After the opera had burned down, he had had no financial income, but still had some money in a small fortune that he had gathered by extracting small amounts of his paycheck to put aside in case of a time when money would not be provided. He had never been so glad to see a small hill of shining coins when he gathered the money needed fr the pain relief medicine.   
Ah, there it was. Dr. Jorvin's Medical Shoppe. The man would be from England no doubt, with store's title being spelled and presented in the fashion it was. Not to mention the name was not a French one. Entering the small medical shop, erik hunched over in the brightly lit shop filled with large candles that eluminated light thouroughly, being sure to hide his milk white mask. Scanning the rows with his sharp eyes, Erik spotted the pain relief, the one section consisting of one brand of which there were many bottles. Grabbing a little brown glass container, and carrying it to the front desk, Erik shoved the charged amount of coins onto the desktop surface , swiped the bottle into his cloak pocket and had turned to leave when a name spoken behind him aught his ear,  
" …De Chaney mistress is off terribly and will need more penicillin before the next fore night, so order more in if you can, please."  
Erik's heart skipped a beat, then began to thunder visciously in his chest. Breathing was suddenly very, so very hard to do, and his knees found the taks of keeping him upright suddenly very difficult.  
Christine. Sick. It couldn't be and yet… how many De Chaney's could there possibly be in Paris beside Christine and Raoul? No doubt that boy was too spoiled to know how to care for a sick maiden. No, there was no piossiblity that the young man knew anthing about medicine. Erik, however had studied it in his spare time and even had to administer himself stitches. Surly Erik was a far more competent man to care for Christine then Raoul. The boy would end up killing her! Erik could not possibly sit back and watch as Raoul killed the woman he loved with ignorance. NO! He would not stand for it!

" what do you mean we're going? Going WHERE Erik?"  
Erik tossed one of the girl's dresses into a small pile of clothes that had formed as he had thrown a mixture of both his and Margareite's belongings into one area.  
" A small journey, nothing more," Erik assured her, walking a circle around the child, blinded by puropuse, he'd forgotten about keeping his space, and his stomache padded, however gently, agaisnt Margareite's shopulder, causing her to jump back drastically.  
Hearing her gasp, Erik turned sharpluy, immidiatly knelting own before her, searchig her expresssion .  
" I didnt-  
Margareite shook her head, eyes closed, and gulped painfully, laying her smsll hand on his shoulder.  
"IKt- it's ok," she assured him. " Just- just tell me where we're going."  
Erik sighed heavily, rasing to his full hight slowly, Margareite's eyes following him without their old intimidation. He turned his back to her, his shoulders slouched. What was he to say? How was he to explain about Christine? About what had happened three months ago?  
"Erik?"  
Clenching his jaw before answering, Erik turned, motioning for her to take a seat on the bed.  
"I'm not sure how to explain this..."  
And Erik began to tell his side of the fabled legends of the Phantom of the Opera


	8. Chapter 8

"Just be glad I'm not force feeding you chicken broth every two hours," Raoul stated to Christine, who glared at him. "I got so sick of the vile drink I simply gag at the smell."  
Christine sighed heavily, forcing herself to listen to what her fiancé had to say. It wasn't that didn't want to listen to him, it was just so hot in the room it was becoming unmanageable. For goodness sakes even her lower legs were damp with sweat! Moaning her complaint, she threw the heavy quilts off of herself, a trickle of sweat running down her temple.   
"I told you to keep those on," Raoul scolded from across the room, gazing at her from over a book he had been reading in a large chair.  
" If I keep them on I'll die of heat," Christine retorted heatedly.  
" If you don't keep them on you'll catch your death."  
" If I keep them on I'll die of heat, thus defeating the purpose," Christine shot back defensively. "And if all you're going to do is sit there and lecture me, I suggest you leave me be in my bed of misery."  
Raoul cocked an eyebrow at her.  
"Are you suggesting that you can force me to leave you alone?"  
"Yes," Christine answered with an annoyed air, crossing her arms. Raoul smirked at her, putting the book down and uncrossing his legs.  
" I'd like to see you attempt such feet, Mademoiselle, even when well."  
"Oh?"  
Christine's eyes glittered as she rose to meet the challenge, pushing herself higher on the propped pillows.  
Taking a small silver bell from her bedside table, she rang it delicately, its crystalline sound resounding throughout the room. She down right smiled when she caught Raoul's amazed look.  
"You wouldn't," he scoffed, eyes narrowing.  
"I did," Christine said, her eyes filled with unholy glee  
"You rang, Mademoiselle"  
A large bustling woman nick named Grey for her silver hair, with a kind but stern disposition that was not to be trifled with hustled in,. Her hands clasped in front of her white maid's apron.  
"Monsieur De Chaney is craving a drink of chicken broth, I think," Christine told the servant, her lips twitching into a smile she fought to hide from the woman. Raoul positively growled from across the way, standing abruptly.  
" No, Grey," he said quickly. "I'm fine, really! I was just about to go out for a cup of tea with the Gerard couple. Newly wed you know."  
The maid looked between the two of them with a confused expression, her head cocked to the side rather like a curious dog.  
"I'm sure you were, dear," Christine agreed through her teeth. At the tone of her voice, the maid finally caught on, a chuckle escaping her lips.  
"Monsieur and thin you had better actually go and visit the Gerards before your mistress gets nasty," she suggested.  
"It's far too late for that, mademoiselle," Raoul said sparingly. He turned to Christine. "That was down right wrong, my lady." With a huff, he turned on his heal and exited the room.  
" Finally," Christine gasped. "I thought I was going to die of suffocation, the way he was watching my every move."  
The made laughed lightly, pouring Christine another glass of water, and pushing it into Christine's hand.  
"It will help with the fever," she assured her. "It's natural for one to hover when their better half is ill or hurt." She said with a smile, and then left the room as well, closing the door gently behind her.  
Finally alone, Christine relaxed into the beding, sighing contentedly, and drinking down the glass of water.

"Christine...Christine..."

Erik's voice carried an old, familure memory caused him to shiver as he hid in the shadows, Margariete's breath barley audible behind him. How could he have brought his poor girl into this? All reason had been a blind spot that now showed its errors. A young girl was being towed along in a plan that if caught, could take her away from him. He was involving a helpless girl in an act that followed up on only what had been told to her two nights ago. But now, as he wondered at his ignorance of the danger he put the child in, all thoughts were drawn away to thoughts of Christine. Her slim, weary figure rose weakly in the bed, gazing around, her breath coming in short gasps.  
"Erik..." it was a barley heard whisper, but it rung in the Phantom's ears perfectly. The way her voice clung to his name...

Margareite stood by Erik, cloaked by shadow, staring in wonder at the Phantom that stood before her, his voice unearthly. Never before had she heard such a perfect sound emit from Erik...all of his humming and small songs sung under his breath had been tired and without effort put into them...and yet now...his voice was like that of an angel's just come down from heaven... or perhaps some deceptive creature come up from hell...  
"Christine... I am your angle of music... come to me angel of music..."  
Erik had explained to Margareite that Christine had thought him, for some time, to be an "angel" promised by her father, and in his desperation to have Christine as his own, Erik had gone along with her belief...

He only hoped and prayed that it would work one last time. Christine was frightened; he could see it in her posture, the way she curled up, grasping the blankets around her, the way her voice trembled when she sang back...

"In sleep he sang to me..."  
Christine was shaking in utter fear. It was him. Erik. He had come back. Come back to do god knew what... to kill her? Take her back? Kill Raoul?  
"That voice which calls to me...

"Come to me angel, and hide no longer!" Erik's voice rose in all its hypnotic glory...

As he emerged from the shadows, Erik's daunting form strode across the room in four quick, sure strides, threw the blankets off Christine and scooped her up in his arms. Christine's voice seemed to crack as she tried to speak, her mouth opening and closing, but no sound came forward to cry for help.  
Good, very good, Erik didn't need DeChaney chasing after them.  
Surely the boy would figure out where to look in a short amount of time; the prat was not stupid, simply dangerously courageous. But he didn't have time to figure out how to trick Christine's fiancé just now. Now he had to get her back to the opera house quickly.  
"Margareite," Erik called as he neared the window of the room. Thank god that had her on the first floor of the house...

Christine gasped as a young girl no older then nine, maybe eight at the oldest, and terribly scarred, stepped forth into the candle light. Where on earth had the child come from? When had Erik acquired a child to care for? Surely the man had passed the into insanity far too much to care for a child!  
The girl looked at her with curiosity and a slight glint in her eye, although what emotion was held in that glint it was far too dark to tell.  
Christine gasped again as Erik hugged her closer, cradling her in his arms and leapt out the window, landing with a slight jar. The young girl followed quickly.  
"Erik..." Christine's voice cracked again, making it impossible to protest her capture. It was completely infuriating. It was not her illness that caused her to loose her voice. It was fear, rage, and another emotion that left her feeling helpless...and in her easily weakened state, she felt so utterly tired, that without any way to keep herself aware of her surroundings, she lost consciousness.


	9. Chapter 9

So this was the infamous Christine. She was a pretty one to be sure. Margareite could understand why two men had both fallen in love with her. What she didn't understand was how at least one of them had simply just had they're way with her. It seemed more likely to Margariete that at least one of them would come out of his perverted shell sooner or later...  
But the past three months with Erik had given her something else to think about as far as the male half of the human species wet. She had grown up her entire life being told that she was there simply for a man's wants and needs; nothing more. She was just a little toy without rhyme or reason to living except to be a man's pet. And yet, knowing Erik, know The Phantom of the Opera, had taught her so much more then she had ever known in her short life.  
As Margareite gazed upon the weak thing that Erik carried in his arms, and anger at the petite beauty swelled up within her. She had hurt Erik so much! All he had ever done was love her, wanted to give her everything she could want that he could provide. And yet she ran off with the Viscount. The man was just a rich boy looking for pleasures, Margariete was sure. She had known too many young men of rich bearings that had bought her for a night.  
"Climb in, Margariete," Erik's voice was rough with emotion as he gestured with a jerk of his head towards the gondola that waited in the flooded labyrinth beneath the Opera House.  
Margareite nodded gently and climbed in, cuddling herself into the front corner so that there was room for the fainted angel that Erik held close in his arms. She watched as Erik placed Christine into the gondola with great care, his love for her shimmering around him like a magical aura.  
It felt so weird having this other girl being Erik's focus, and as much as Margariete hated to admit it she found herself growing jealous as he banked the vessel in his lair and lifted her as if she were a china doll destined to break if she was jarred in the slightest. Watching Erik carry her up to the room so very like the fuzzy memory she had of the night Erik had saved her, the young girl had a terrible urge to trip Erik, make him drop his prize, wishing that she would shatter and break, giving Erik's full attention back to Margareite. It wasn't that she wanted Christine hurt, but after all this time Margareite had finally found a man that actually cared for her without wanting to hurt her; she felt as if she was loosing the one thing in life that had been steadily kind. If she did loose Erik, she wasn't sure she would be able to continue. She would rather die then return to the life she had once lived.

Christine woke, her eyelids heavy, her breathing ragged within her chest, causing her to cough heavily. Her eyes shut tightly as she rolled into a fitful bout of coughing that tore her throat painfully. Tears leaked from the corners of her doe brown eyes before her coughing subsided, and she sighed, all of her energy having been seeped up by the storm of coughs. She relaxed back into the pillows wondering where Raoul was; he couldn't be in the room or he would already have been at her side, worry creasing his brow. And then she recalled.  
"Erik!" she gasped, sitting up abruptly, despite her lack of energy.  
The Phantom of the Opera stood in the yawning rock doorway instead of Raoul, his one visible eyebrow pinched in the center of his forehead in concern, instead of Raoul. She had forgotten just how beautiful he was when his mask hid his deformation. He stood before her in all of his predatory glory; the candle light from the cave cavern behind him put a glow around his perfectly fit and tailored clothed body. She had also forgotten how tall he was, his 6'2 frame seemed to fill the room...or perhaps that was just her fear causing his aura to expand.

Erik stepped toward her uncertainly, his heart racing painfully. She had finally woken after a full night of sleep; a full bight in which neither he, nor Margareite spoke. He had been far too preoccupied with thoughts of Christine, causing him to almost completely forget about the young girl that lived in his home. The girl had been so silent, he wasn't sure she had moved from the cahir in which she sat and slept in the entire eight hours that they had hall passed silently.  
Now Christine sat before him, tired and scared. He had never meant to scare her, although, what exactly he had thought stowing her away in the middle of the night would have done otherwise. But at least she was with him now... he could care for her properly, the way that sniffling boy never could.  
The illness had taken a toll on Christine's normal beauty. She was still pretty enough, but the dark circles beneath her eyes, and her bloodshot eyes betrayed her hidden beauty. She had lost weight as well...

She had lost weight, causing hollows around her large brown eyes, but thankfully the wheight loss was not dangerously drastic. Her hair was greasy, truth be told, not having the strength to get up and wash if for the four weeks she had been sick, her curls stringy and laying tangled and flat against her head. Now thinking back on when he had carried her unconscious form, she had smelled of sweat. Poor Christine... had they not thought even to wash her with towel and sponge in bed? Anger at DeChaney rose up within him, and he voiced his opinion rather stronger then he meant to.  
" did not that idiot of a boy think even to wash you?" he asked harshly, his voice rough.  
Christine jumped and shrank back shaking in fear. Erik's anger rolled off of him like the rocks roll off a mountain in a land slide, stopping inches from the edge. Watching him closely, Christine could visibly see Erik fighting to restrain his temper. Christine's temper was rising to its exhausted height, giving her more strength to argue with her captor, however shaky her voice may be.  
"They DID wash me Erik!" she shot back, her voice small. "But I sweat so much with those cursed blankets that I sweat fresh sheens everyday!" Erik peered at her his crystalline blue eyes slicing into her.  
"And your hair?" he speared, his voice loud, teetering on the brink of shouting. It was Christine's turn to glare, her anger focusing solely upon him.  
"So that I could catch pneumonia as well?" she bit at him. "Use your head Erik! What good did you think could possibly come of KIDNAPPING me in the middle of the night?"

Erik's head jerked in surprise at the tone of her voice, his thoughts reeling. Just what HAD he thought stealing her away in the night would accomplish? Anger reared up once again within him at this thought. What good had he thought would come of kidnapping her!  
" I saved your life," he shot back, his voice dangerously quiet, reminding himself briefly of Margareite. "If I had not taken you when I did that boy would have killed you with his inadequacy to care for you!"  
Christine was silenced momentarily, taken aback by Erik's accusation towards Raoul. How DARE he suggest that Raoul could not properly care for her!  
"I'll have you know, Phantom, that Raoul has provided me with the best care that could possibly be given. You on the other hand bring me down into a cold, damp, dank cave and expect to be able to care for me?" Christine's voice cracked, but her emotion was unmistakable.  
Erik's eyes narrowed, the one beneath his mask seeming even more sinister as he opened his mouth to shout back. 

"That boy-"

Margareite sat in the main area of Erik's lair, gaping at the creature that was Erik. What had happened to the Erik that she knew? To the lethal, smooth, graceful panther like person that was Erik? The man that stood before her was clumsy with anger, and once again terrifying her as he never had before; before she feared his suave abandon. Now she feared his raw anger at whomever this Raoul was, his irritation at the woman that he had professed his undying love for. And now the two of them were arguing like an old couple. The more was said the louder each of them got... it was all too much. Too much too fast!

"Stop!" Marguerite's small voice rang out desperately, calling Christine's attention away from Erik back to the girl that had followed them back. Once again her curiosity was kindled. Where on earth had The Phantom of the Opera gained the care of a child?  
"Please stop! Stop shouting!" the girl was covering her ears, her face twisted as she obviously tried to block out the yells.

Erik was shaken by the desolation in Marguerite's voice. He had forgotten the pure fear that was raised within the girl by a raised voice. How could he have been so careless? Caring not for Christine at the present second, he trotted down the stairs, kneeling before Margareite in the large chair she sat in a ball upon. A cold hand gripped his stomach tightly as he gently reached up and took her hands away from her ears, feeling her hands beneath his own shaking.   
"Margariete..." he began, but stopped when he could think of nothing to say. The only thing he could think to do at the moment but speak to her in a calm comforting voice. "Ma chere, please. I'm sorry... I was just very... frustrated..." he looked back up at Christine who stared at the two in complete astonishment, her large eyes almost eerily wide.

What in the name of all she held dear was going on between these two? She had never know Erik to be so gentle with any but her, and even she, in all his anger, he allowed himself to become rough with at times. But this girl... he was so gentle with this girl, Christine found herself envying the child Erik's soft touch and voice. The musical tender tone that he spoke to the child with... it was so cautious... almost...FATHERLY. When he had sung to Christine... he had been loving... and yet... there had always been a seductive tone that had caused her nerves to stand upon edge, constantly quavering. But that had been when she was a virgin, terrified by anything more then the sexual activity of kissing. Now that she had slept with Raoul, the seductive voice in which Erik had spoken to her no longer held its pointed sword that caused her to quaver. However, she cursed herself, she still had managed to successfully fall for the spell of song that The Phantom weaved so perfectly.

Maragareite gazed down at the Phantom with frightened eyes, unsure of exactly what was going on between these two. When Erik had told her of his obsession and love for this new comer, Christine, she could only imagine him holding her tight and dear, giving her everything that she could possibly want...and yet, here they were, spitting at each other like two felines in a spat.  
And two felines they were; Erik a sleek panther of movement, Christine a much daintier house cat not unlike a Siamese, as she seemed to much enjoy the sound of her own voice. It was and obscenely odd pairing. And yet, while both of them were like a felines, Margariete found herself an entirely different species, rather like a frightened street pup, in search of love rather then food. Where was she to fit into this couple that had reunited, despite their arguments? The fear of loosing Erik reared up once again, bearing its ugly head high.

Erik watched the change in the girl's eyes; she still was in fear of something, but it was a different fear then a moment ago. The fear was internal now, rather then of anything external. HE recognized his own thought patterns within the child, knowing how a single thought could spark yet another fire altogether different from the original subject upon which he had been thinking.

" Ma chere... what is it? Of what do you think?" his voice was genuinely curious, if not concerned. Christine watched him before the child, wondering at the sight that played out for her eyes. Erik, at one point, had given his life to loving Christine, finding a way to keep her with him... and yet now... it was all too plain. The Phantom had found another to live for... and yet, he lived to help her. His life had become this small child that he now comforted. This child was his heart, his will to live. Christine was merely and side thought no. Erik's obsession with her had grown slightly stale in the light of Margareite, as he had called her.; and yet now his continuing need for Christine loomed over, cracking but not broken, Erik himself completely unaware of the tearing fabric tat tied Christine to him. But she knew Erik. Christine knew The Phantom of the Opera. He would not let go this time. Never let go.

Raoul DeChaney flew out of the large white painted doors and bolted for the stable, pushing many servants around the manor campus violently out of his way.  
She was gone! Gone! Right out from beneath his nose, his sick fiancé had disappeared! His heart pounded heavily in his chest, almost painfully as he snatched the reigns to one of the newer, greener stallions that were being led out to the small training ring by one of the stable boys. The young man, no older then fifteen allowed Raoul charge of the horse without argument, taken aback by his employer's rush.   
Raoul kicked the horse roughly in his desperation, startling the stallion, used to gentler hands from his master, into a catapulting gallop, almost unseating Raoul. Gripping tightly with his legs, Raoul snatched up handfuls of grey mane, and leaned forward grimly to give the stallion his head, urging him even faster. The grey steed's powerful muscles flexed at full speed at first, his stride choppy, his hooves clipping sparks across the dangerously loose gravel driveway. For the first few moments, Raoul cared not for the horse, only for reaching his destination as quickly as possible.  
Gone! How could he possibly be so blind? Who could have possibly taken her hostage from her own room?  
The irrational assumption that the Phantom had come back t claim his obsession entered Raoul's brain, but he stopped himself. Surely the thing had gone off somewhere and died? He had disappeared so suddenly from they're lives that Raoul had not given any thought to what exactly had happened to him. He had simply been so glad to be rid of-  
The stallion beneath him gave snort as he charged out of the iron gates full speed, his hooves slipping dangerously upon the smoother pavement, making him lean sharply to the side. Raoul's heart now did thump painfully within his bosom, waiting for the collision with the ground, but by some miracle, he felt the horse gain his footing and set off again.  
The near fall warned Raoul that his recklessness was far too aggressive and would soon cause injury to himself and his charge, and so tugged lightly on the reigns, signaling for the grey storm that he controlled to slow to a slower pace. The stud settled easily into the less urgent stride asked of him, as Raoul sat back slightly. There as no point in rushing. The kidnapping had been done. The best he could do was continue to the authorities and ask for they're help.


	10. Chapter 10

Maragreite composed herself quickly, wrapping her cold blanket of velvet around her burning mind. To let Erik into her thoughts, to allow him the knowledge of her fear, would be to let him go. Surely when he realized just how much he needed him, he would find her a nuisance and release her. All those months back, she had wanted nothing more but to b free of this dark cave… now she wanted nothing more but to live out her life her, away from the garish light of day. So, she hid behind a black veil that she used as protection against Erik's prying. She had discovered long ago that the Phantom man would back off from nothing but this weapon… it was the only weapon she had against his heart. Little did she know that every time she used such a veil, she revealed a fraction more of her own, scarred heart?

"I think of nothing, Erik," her voice had slithered but into that tone of death soon from a black widow. Erik surpassed the impulse to shiver. There was something within her voice when she spoke with such a tone that revealed an agonizing past, just behind a black veil, obscuring his view from the object... person… no, men that it hid from his view. The question was who? Why? But to find these answers he must find a way to lift that shifting veil that blocked his view.

Christine frowned tightly, recognizing that tone of voice. Madame Giry had used it when, by vicious prying from Christine after she had fled to live with raoul, she was forced to reveal parts of Erik's terrible past. It was silky, but as dangerous as it was smooth, and as warning as a rattlesnake's clattering tail end. It hid dangerous secrets that could ruin one's mind. But what this child hid behind such a loud rattle, despite the quietness of her voice, Christine did not know.

"You think of something, Little Flower, what is it?" Erik pushed, attempting to disarm the girl with the nickname he had bestowed her on the night he had saved her, and had not used after the first few days. He could not continue to let her hide like this.

"I think of your stupidity," Margareite bit out with a sting of words, shaken by his use of "Little Flower" as a reminder. Erik blinked rapidly in place of his body's instinct to jerk in response to her tone. Such a harsh movement would do him no good. But his disarming was working, if her bite was any indication. He pushed farther then he had ever pushed before now, clenching his teeth to stop his body's trembling. He hated digging into the girl's mind... he knew what it as like to be poked at with words.

" And what stupidity would that be Margariete?" he asked, his voice firm though quiet, warning her not to try to un away from this, his hands gentle upon her wrists, not wanting to threaten her with physical strength. "To care for you, to genuinely want to sow you compassion? What is it you fear, Margariete? I see it in your eyes, but I cannot place that fear and subdue it until you tell me." His voice was almost pleading now.

"I fear YOU," she snaked out, no longer nipping a bite with her voice, but now striking out in a harsh tone that warned him that she was ready to crawl back into her shell of confinement within her mind if he drove any deeper. Knowing that he would not physically subdue her, and hating herself for using such knowledge against him, but desperate to be free of his begging eyes, she wrenched her wrists from of his grip and let to her feet and off the chair. Bolting as fast as her little legs would carry her, she ran to the bank of the flooded water ways and rustling with the long staff used to propel the gondola and dragging it to the little boat and climbing in, pushing it clumsily away from the banks.

She had to get away from here…. From Erik. His instance that she reveals her fear to him had hidden a deeper meaning that she could see all too well. He was digging for hints at her past as well as the fear that he had seen within her eyes. Her was forging forward harder then he ever had before, even after she had used the only weapon she knew how to use, and that terrified her.

Erik had leapt to his feat, wading into the water and shouting after her. She didn't know how to use the gondola! What if she over balanced, of fell out or…? HE was about to leap full body into the water to swim after her when he felt a weak hand fall upon his shoulder. HE whipped around, his face angry.

"Christine, let go!" she shook her hand off with ease, but she grasped his forearm and gripped with more force.

"Let her be, Erik," her voice was firm, but rouge with illness. "She needs to be alone. Surely she can call if she needs help. We will hear the echoes. But let her be. She needs time to herself."\

Sighing with resignation, Erik relaxed his strain against Christine's hand, walking up the bank, Christine following.

Christine fell into the chair that Margareite had previously been seated in, close to exhaustion from the slight exertion. Erik was suddenly gripped with worry for her. Where had his mind been while he was shouting at her for the fault of others? Striding with sure steps and movements he had been cautious to hide for so long for the sake of Margareite, but slid into so easily, he hurried over to his table, pouring some wine.

If he continued acting the way he had, surly Christine would only become furious with him, and that his heart could not afford. It had been broken apart at the sight of the emotional agony he had once caused her, forcing him to relinquish his hold over her. To see her angry with him, and physically exhausted for him, in perhaps, perverted as the thought was, the one way he did not wish her to be exhausted for him, could tear his heart to shreds.

"Wine?" he offered cautiously, holding the glass goblet before her. Christine looked at him with hard, accusing eyes.

"Water, perhaps," she rejected her face cold.

"Of course, of course," Erik muttered, cursing himself for not thinking of water first. HE poured fresh water from a pitcher into yet another goblet and rushed it to Christine, offering it, along with his soul.

Christine's eyes softened a bit, but Erik did not see that, his attention focused upon the ground. The phantom man was offering so much more then water. He stooped before her, begging her, pleading with her to accept his love, devotion, and apology for his actions earlier. As much as Erik was capable of doing, this man was surprisingly vulnerable, if put in certain circumstances. Before her was man that had tricked and seduced her, attempted to murder her lover, HAD murdered two innocent men ( although she held suspicions that Bouquet deserved his end), and in all other words completely slaughtered her life, and at one point, threatened her very future. But before her was also a man slightly board with life, severely confused at times, and knew nothing of the love of a woman. Except perhaps, Margareite, a young girl yet, and no where near woman hood. But it was a step near lessons in love that Erik was desperately in need of. This brought up the subject of the young girl. It was an escape from discussing things that desperately needed to be worded, but neither one knew how, nr had any wish to.

"Erik, let us talk as civil people, as normal people-"she thought she saw Erik flinch, but continued, "- without the complications of our past," she finished, taking the goblet of water gently from Erik's shaking hands. Erik looked up at her with an odd look in his eyes, an eccentric mixture of thankfulness and insecurity.

Erik fought to keep his eyes dry of the tears that threatened to well up and glass over his crystal blue gaze. Never before had Christine looked upon him, or even so much as spoke to him as she would a normal person… a REAL person. Emotion damned up within him, blocked but uncertainty. He had never carried an intelligent conversation with a normal human being; what an odd concept that he, a slightly mad genius at times, should now, facing the woman that had influenced his life at the peak of his inhuman ways, speak as if it were a normal luncheon outing. But how different the conversation would be then Erik had expected.

"This girl… ho did she come to your care?" Christine asked flatly, shooting straight and true for the heart of her thought. Erik was obviously taken aback, not having prepared himself for such a subtle attack. He could hear the hidden words behind Christine's spoken words. How did the care of a child come into the hands of a deformed mad creature? Erik backed away and sat in a wooden chair diagonally from Christine at the wooden desk, sighing.

"After…." E hesitated. How was he to word that he had wandered the streets of Paris blind with Agonizing pain for loosing her? "After… the... fire," he substituted bitterly,

"I escaped into the streets, and found myself in an alleyway, less crowded with people."

Now that the story transformed the subject away from Christine, Erik's voice strengthened and grew surer. He could handle this. "I heard the cry of a young girl, and followed the sound to find tow large men manhandling Margariete. I did not think…. I attacked, killed one, perhaps the other after taking his head to the nearest wall of the building." Erik looked away from Christine, sure that cold hatred fro his murders lay within her eyes.

"You did what you had to in order to save a young girl. That is not murder, Erik, that is defense of the weaker," Christine's voice assured him, causing him to look at her in surprise. She smiled gently and nodded for him to continue. Incredulous that she was not looking upon him with either anger or fear, he continued.

"I found her huddling in a corner, scared. She flinched away from my touch, but eventually, exhaustion took over and she fainted. Without thought to proper reason, I brought her back here. She was badly bruised and beaten, with numerous lacerations. I cared for her until she awoke one night and padded up behind me. She asked me to play my organ…"

Christine nodded. Erik was a magician with the organ that lay to their left, coaxing out music that wrapped around one's soul and bound the mind. She had once wondered if enchantments were real, and if they were, if the organ was not enchanted itself. But, no. It was the master of the instrument that was the enchanted one.

"…She took the jacket from me like e a small rodent snatching food from a plate and then scurrying away before any consequences for her movements could befall her. I was sure at the time that it was the immediate repercussion of the beatings that the two men had given her. But as time went on, no matter how much I tried to show her I meant no harm... she still would balk at even the whisper of a touch, jump at an unexpected movement. It came to the point where I had to slow my movements and make sure she could tell what I was going to do next. After a long while she finally didn't' feel the need to watch my every move, but that was the only inch of trust she would give… then one night… oh, Christine…," Erik's stomach gripped around ice that bit into his belly once more in memory. "Oh Christine… she was only looking at my face… touched it with the hand of a curious young girl that was wondering about the face of a grown male…but it was instinct, I swear it was instinct, I didn't mean to harm her, I swear it Christine! But I took her little wrist…" Erik looked down at his hands, lost in memory, guilt playing across the unmasked side of his face, " …and I threw her aside more easily then I had thrown you, Christine…she was so light I think if I had deliberately meant to throw her, I could have tossed her form here into the lake. But, oh christen she spoke to me in such a voice then that ravages my mind… it was filled with agonizing pain... so much pain.. And I recognized that despairing pain... but for that girl to know such pain in the degrees upon which it has been force to her…" Erik shuddered, causing after shakes that continued as he spoke, his voice shifting. "….do you know what she screamed at me when I tried to apologize, Christine? 'All you want is my body. That's all men ever want.' That is what she accused me of…" All of the weight of the knowledge of what had happened to this girl that had bogged down upon him was finally being released, and he couldn't have stopped himself if he had tried. "Then later… oh Christine that would have been enough fro e to understand... but later she asked me in that horrible tone if I was going to use her as my personal…pet," Erik almost choked on the word, but continued. "'Think about it Monsieur Erik,' she said. 'Your down here alone all this time. And now you have a girl don here with you for your pleasing. What more could you want?'…. Oh Christine… she has been hurt... hurt badly by men… males, as she refers to them more often. It's almost as if she sees them as a completely different species." Finally Erik took a shaking breath, finished.

Christine stared at him with wide eyes, unbelieving. Who would hurt such a young girl? And why?

"Rape?" she asked roughly. Erik nodded despairingly.

"More then once I think. Many times, perhaps… numerous beatings… there are many scars... one around her neck... I think she was bound by the neck at one point… possibly deliberately starved. She was well under weight when she came into my care."

"Oh god that poor girl..." Christine closed her eyes. And here she had thought that her ordeal had been terrible. If that had been terrible, the girl's life was atrocious. "And her parents? What of them? Has she no family, no one else to care for her?" Erik shook his head.

"She has not mentioned as such yet, and I am loath to release her to such people that would allow such things to happen to her." Christine nodded.

"She's finally started to trust me Christine, after all this time, she's finally stating to trust me, and as you noticed, small simple touches, such as my hands upon her wrists, perhaps her shoulder, and touches initiated by herself… but that is as far as it goes. I still have to monitor my movements, make sure they're not too quick or sharp, otherwise she becomes frightened," Erik informed her, once again looking at his hands and running his fingers along one palm. Did such strength lie within these hands that such in justice could not be stopped but they could cause injustice? "But there is little I can do to get through to her sensitive mind. I think it is the fact that I am male that turns her away from revealing anything; for fear, I think, of revealing too much and having to suffer whatever consequences may surround such a yielding action." Christine frowned in thought, the looked to Erik, wondering at a new mask that he wore- one of guilt, and sorrow, and pain for the girl. It amazed Christine that such a man that had committed the deeds of his past come to care so entirely for a simple young girl.

"Perhaps," christen began, "I should try to bond with her. Perhaps then, we could find the full extent of her past... and help her heal. I am also curious to know," her voice grew icily sharp, " how she has come to be the victim of so many violations of her body at only the age of… what? Nine?"

"Seven," Erik corrected his voice scratchy with emotion. "Do try Christine. I fancy a woman may get farther into the mind of a hurt girl than a man, even one such as myself, would." He sighed, thinking perhaps, that he should go find Margareite before she got lost in the catacombs. Surely he could find her, but he did not want her traveling so far into the labyrinth that she became lost and scared in the dark. He voiced his concerns to Christine, who agreed, and looked out tot h lake. No gondola. Well, swimming it would have to be. Excusing himself, he slid into the water and made his way gracefully through the back pool and under the rising gate, opened by Christine.

Christine looked after him with utter confusion. After all he had done, she had thought his surely to go completely insane and yet… now before her was man turned into a desperate father figure. She didn't quite know what to make of such a change. In the mean time, Raoul sprang to mind. Her fiancé would be worried sick for her by now. And as much as she desperately wanted to return to the arms of her beloved, something tied her to the young girl and the changing Erik. She could not abandon them when they both so desperately needed her. She would help them, then, if it was possibly, return to Raoul. No, not IF it was possible, she WOULD return to Raoul. The Phantom of the Opera that still lingered within Erik would never let her go this time, but neither would she hold herself to him.


	11. Chapter 11

Just how far had Margariete gotten? Surely she couldn't have reached any farther then the main flooded corridor to the west wing of the theatre? He hadn't sat and talked to Christine THAT long had he?

Erik made his way through the cold water, breast stroking smoothly, wondering at the girl's disappearance. He had monitored the amount of splashing he allowed himself in hopes he might be able to hear her somewhere along the water ways, but so far had had no luck. HE was beginning to worry desperately for the girl. What if she HAD infact tipped over? What if in the process of falling out had hit her head, rendering her unconscious and unable to call for help? Erik's heart pounded heavily within his chest at this thought, driving him to push himself faster.

He should never have listened to Christine. Should never have let Margariete go off alone. She didn't know the water ways or the dry part of the labyrinth, and she didn't know ho to control the gondola. HE should never have pushed as far as he did when he knew how uncomfortable it made her. He should never have-

He was startled by the feeling of something solid bumping against his kicking legs and he jump causing him to swallow a mouthful of untastley water. Had it merely been a fish? There were a few down here… but no. It had been far too heavy, too limp to be a fish. Erik's heart that had beaten heavily in his chest before now panged painfully. Again he felt something brush his leg, but this time, he recognized the feel of material against his skin where the water pulled his pant leg up. It was unmistakable now. Taking a sharp, deep breath, Erik dove under feeling around about him in the dark water not daring to open his eyes for the bacteria that floated around him. After a moment of searching, he was forced to surface again, his lungs screaming for air. HE took two deep breaths before he could hold another one and dove back down determined to find Marguerite's limp form. He swam a little farther, continuing to feel about him. Soon enough his lungs burned with the desperation for air, but he HAD to find her. If he went up again he might well loose her! Ignoring his need for breath, he searched frantically about him until finally-

The girl's fingers brushed his in a deathly dead man's touch. Erik immediately reached out and grasped her little wrist tightly, pulling her unconscious form to him, and resurfacing with a huge gasp of air, looking about him widely. Where was that cursed gondola when he needed it? But the little boat was no where to be see, forcing him, grudgingly, to swim with Margareite clasped tightly to his side by one arm, and stroking with the other.

It was a painstakingly slow process, but he could feel her breathing, immensely grateful that he did not have to fear her a death of drowning due to water in her lungs before he could do anything about it. Halfway back to his cave, Erik's limbs began to rebel, burning with exhaustion, his stronger of the two legs with which he had been propelling the hardest refused to obey his commands any longer, simply refusing to kick, his other leg flaying weakly about, his arm used to push himself forward weighing as if a brick were tied to it. The man fought with his tiring body, forcing it to move and pushing himself along the moss covered wall for support. His breath was coming in short, harsh gasps that did nothing more then tire his lungs out farther, and was continually gagging on the green water surrounding him. But all of this, he ignored, the only thing within his mind being to get Margariete to land where he could help her. Finally, just as Erik was finally giving way to his exhaustion, the gate appeared before him. He grasped the bars, resting heavily against them.

"Christ-Christine…" his voice was breathy, and wasn't sure of Christine had heard him, but he did not have the energy to call out again. The young woman appeared from behind the large chair at the sound of his raspy voice, rushing to open the gate. Erik was forced to let go his only support, but thankfully handed Margariete over to Christie who had waded out to the gate, then surprisingly, put a supporting arm around Erik, supporting both. As much as he tried to support himself, the Phantom man found himself leaning most of his weight upon the sick Christine, who now supported both girl and man. It was a short ways to wade through the water, and until the level lowered to her knees, the water helped her with some of the weight, but by the time they reached the banks of the lake, her brow was wet with perspiration, her hair once again soaked around her forehead and temples. All three, Margariet falling limply across Christine, slumped to the ground just about the banks, worn to the bone. Christine found herself bitterly cursing herself within her mind. Erik had haled himself AND an unconscious girl for what must have been quite a way, while she had not traveled even a quarter of such.

Christine looked tiredly at the girl that lay like a rag doll across her stomach, her head resting against Erik's shoulder. Her hair was a sopping mess, the thick brown locks falling akimbo, dripping with water, her dress clinging to her little body. But she was sill breathing. Thank god for that, Christine thought to herself before blanking out.

Erik had head Christine's head fall with a soft thump to the ground and groaned when he realized he had now two bodies to move, both unconscious.

"Lovely," he muttered to himself, laying still for a few moments before gathering the will to sit up, and kneel before Magrareite and lifting her, with what would normally have been ease, with a certain about of effort.

"I don't look forward to lifting you, Christine," he groaned, hefting the small body in his hands and carrying her up the steps and laying her on the far side of the velvet clad bed. He found himself very glad that by the time he reached Christine, his strength was replenishing already, and he used about the same effort cast out to carry margareite a moment ago. Lovingly, the Phantom set Christine next to margareite and covered them both, tucking each in with tender care. He stood about Christine a moment, gazing longingly at he wan, but still lovely face, following the gentle curve of her jaw and the line of her smooth neck on her lady like shoulders and grazing his eyes long her collarbone, not allowing himself to look any farther. He turned way abruptly.

Christine was not his, nor would she ever be. He had taken her in- STOLEN her, a bitter voice in the back of his mind rang-to care for her until she was back to health.

"And hat I job I have done of that," he mumbled to himself striding down the stairs. He grasped the glass of wine he had offered to Christine earlier that sat, untouched, upon the wooden table, taking it in his hands and holding it gently as he did Margariete's wrists, ad as he would have if he ever held Christine in his arms again. Gods knew that he wanted her as badly as he ever had, but she belonged to Raoul, and it would be Raoul that would have her once she was well. Raoul that would hold and kiss and love her, while Erik stayed here, in this cold and dismal place, caring for a broken child.

"Raoul," he whispered harshly, his face contorted in jealousy and anger, before gulping the serving of blood like liquid, then throwing it with a will into the lake below.


	12. Chapter 12

Christine dabbed at Maragareite's brow with a damp cloth, not unlike Erik had done three months before. The girl growled but did not turn away. She had developed a fever a few days after Erik had rescued her from the flooded corridors, no doubt, from the polluted water that she most likely had swallowed.

The gondola had indeed tipped over when she lost grip of the long staff and had leapt to catch it, causing the little boat to capsize. Fall into the water she had grazed her head against the stone wall, knocking her unconscious. She was angry at herself for the mishap, but not nearly as angry as she was with Erik. How DARE he ignore her warning? Never before had he pushed like that at her fragile mind that she guarded so carefully. What made him think she would tell him now, what she feared and what hid behind those oak eyes?

"Hold still will you?" Christine snapped at the girl, pressing the cloth to her head, water trickling down her temples. The girl glared but stopped fidgeting, staring into space now with her thoughts. Christine sighed and caught a falling drop of water with a dry cloth that Erik who now slept in a large chair, had provided.

Having slept for a day after fainting, and then being forced the next two days to stay bedridden had not done much for her temper, but had done well for her health. She had snapped more then once at Erik for small things, who after his first outburst towards her, had slipped back into the obsessive, adoring phantom that had once stalked her. He now bent to her every whim, and more, offering water and food before she asked, tucking her in every our or so, despite the biting remarks he received in turn from her. After a few days, Christine was able to move about the lair without a large amount of exertion, and he coughing fits had stooped all together. Despite her annoyance at Erik's constant hovering, much worse then Raoul's had been, Christine found herself worried that Erik had not had enough rest himself the past few days in between taking care of Christine and Margareite. She had not once seen Erik sleep (although he was snatching half hour naps wile both girls slept), and rarely saw him eating. Once she was able to get up and around, she had immediately put herself in charge of the girl, and sent Erik to sleep, despite his protests.

"You've done enough, Erik," she had told him. "Go sleep." Erik had shaken his head wearily.

"No," he had protested. "I have to care-"

"You DON'T have to care for me any longer, and I can care for the girl."

"Her name is Magrageite," he had snapped, the first show of any energy he had shown in two days coming out in protectiveness. Christine sighed.

"I know, Erik. I do not mean it unkindly." she had assured him. "Now SLEEP." She pointed towards the bed, up the stairs where Margareite slept comfortably. Erik had shaken his head again, this time, feverishly.

"NOW!" she had commanded sharply.

"It's not that," Erik answered. "I can't sleep in there. It would scare Margareite."

"Then sleep in a chair, Erik," she answered, slightly annoyed, but understanding. "For Christ's sake, Erik, just get some sleep. You look like the dead walking." She gave a small gasp as soon as she had spoken the words, biting her lip. Erik had flinched but said nothing, turning away and stalking towards the chair large stuffed chair.

"Erik-"she had called quietly after him, stepping forward. "I did not mean to speak so lightly of ..." she trailed off, not wanting to say "looking like death." The large man had settled down in the chair in utter science, refusing to look at her, and closed his eyes, with a sigh before falling asleep.

Christine placed the wet cloth upon the bedside table, Margareite having fallen asleep now, or so it seemed. She stood, one of her knees cracking uncomfortably. If Erik had sat by they're sides like this any longer then she had, she pitied him, her knees aching terribly. Gathering her simple skirts that she had traded for the nightshift that she had worn the night Erik had secreted her away, despite his protests. He had wanted to bestow her with fine cloths and shining jewelry, but Christine would have none of it.

"Who would I have out to show to Erik, down here in the …place," she had argued, forcing herself to replace her original intent to say "hell". Erik had agreed, but she could see the hurt flash in his eyes at her rejection of his want, NEED to give her everything he could, and the best of it.

Turning, she gazed upon the sleeping Erik, tucked in a chair that held Margareite with ease, but had his long legs draping over the side uncomfortably. Shaking her head, she grasped one of the extra silken sheets that lay at the end of the bed and walked down the stairs silently, striding to him with a soft rustle of skirts and placing the blanket about him, tucking it into his sides. She couldn't afford to have him catch cold as well. She stepped back, her eyes memorizing his strong jaw and long lashes. Once before, she had had the urge to fling off the mask, but now, knowing what lay behind that milk white adornment, and the anger and agony that came with it, she felt nothing but pity for the deformed man that slept before her. A soft rustle behind her caught her attention and she turned to find Margareite sitting in the bed, looking at her with doe eyes so like Christine's own, a midnight black emotion hiding behind them.

"Is he asleep?" she asked, her voice deadly cold.

"Yes," Christine answered carefully.

"Good," the girl replied. "I want to talk to you."


	13. Chapter 13

Christine's brown pinched slightly, unsure of the girl's tone. Gathering her skirts, she walked back up the stairs, sitting in the chair beside the bed.

"Alright then," she answered. "What is it that you want to talk about?"

"You. Erik… me." The answer was short and simple, but Margareite had hesitated before adding "me" at the end. Her eyes were not the liquid brown they normally were as she gazed at Christine steadily. Now they swam before her as almost black pools of ink, waiting to be dipped into and written with to reveal secrets long held back. But the quill was not quite ready yet to cause ripples within those cold pools of darkness. No, not yet, Christine thought as the hostile air that hid behind a tiny girl surrounded her.

"What about us?" she asked cautiously, her fingers playing uncomfortably within her lap, tangling the folds of the smooth skirt.

Margareite resisted the urge to wince at the careful tone of Christine's voice. The woman practically feared her! A child just as easy to subdue as a kitten! She was not one to be feared. If anyone had the right to be afraid, it was Magragreite. Scared that Erik was being torn away from her by an old obsession come back to haunt the Lair.

"How much do you care about Erik?" she asked suddenly, sharply.

As terrified of loosing the Phantom man as Margareite was, she was almost protective first and foremost. She cared desperately about him, and did not want him to face more of the pain that had been delivered to him through this woman, months before now. What complicated it was that that pain was a double bladed knife. If Erik was forced to relive the pain that had pierced his heart so violently, it would only be twisted, bringing out a part of Erik that Christine and Margareite both knew existed, and neither wanted that phantom…. That ghost, to rear its head. Erik could be a dangerous man when he chose to be. He had proven that to both, margareite less so, but that did not hide the facts from her intuitive mind, young as it was. She was asking out of fear of what may come if Erik was caused pain, as much as she was asking out of protectiveness.

Christine was taken aback by these words, laid out flatly by the seven year old girl that sat before her. She knew children could be obliviously frank, but this was not oblivious bliss asking a question that it didn't know was rude. This as a seven year old child that couldn't possibly know how deep emotions could run when asked a question, and yet she had, and clearly, she DID. This girl was not merely smart for her age, she was far too versed in words and meanings and the workings of the mind for such a brush off of and "intellegent girl. No. this girl was a genius. It was the only explanation. She had never heard such cultured words come form the mouth of a child any younger then twelve, and have them clearly understanding exactly what it was they were saying and the reactions they knew it would cause. This girl was so much like Erik, it frightened Christine. The only thing that was missing was the music. Music was all for Erik. His heart, his soul, his mind. But for all Erik was genius mad in thought at times of extreme emotion, this girl was a genius all the way through, and was not in the slightest mad, although perhaps due to an evidently cruel past, perhaps slightly disturbed.

Sighing, Christine turned her mind back to Margareite's question, knowing that the girl awaited an answer. How much did she care about Erik? The Phantom of the Opera? Or were they two different men? And how much did she care for the Erik that Margareite knew, which, Christine felt, was what Margareite was asking. She bit her lit, unsure of how to word her answer. Margariete waited patiently upon the bed, her face emotionless. After a moment of thought Christine answered hesitantly,

"I care about the Erik that cares for u now very much Margareite, but I cannot say that I love him. Not after all that he has done in the past. I cannot forget all the agony and the death that revolved around what happened…well what happened some months ago."

"I already know," Margariete answered sharply. "Erik told me. You needn't try to hide the pain that you inflicted upon him as much as he inflicted upon you." Again Christine was slightly awed at the girl's almost perfected use of lacunae, but continued on. Well then, she supposed she had no choice but to bear the truth. She wondered just how much Erik HAD told the seven year old child.

"Then you know," she continued. "That he killed two people, both innocent men, despite how horrid one of them may have been. You know…" She trailed off when Margariete jerked, her eyes narrowing.

"Then you obviously DON'T know just how horrid he WAS," the girl seethed. Christine looked at her questionably. Margareite glared at her, sparks spitting from the black pools that were her eyes. " You didn't know then that he used to sneak into the stage hand girl's rooms and rape them, then? You didn't know that he held a knife to their throats when they tired to scream?" The girl's voice was positively hissing now, angry as a cobra that had its crown flared for attack.

Christine's eyes widened. Boquet She had known him to be a bit of a peeping tom, but surely he had not raped the girl that helped with props and other such things? They were just young ones, the daughters of the male ballet dancers and other stage hands. She had been close with one infact, saw her rather like a sister. The young twelve year old girl had been quiet, and rarely spoke but to Christine and yet… while the other girls of the ballet fancied over the men about the audience in their fine clothes, the girl had simply walked away, mumbling one excuse or the other. Christine's hand flew to her throat as she remembered noticing a small nick of a scar along the hollow of the girl's throat.

"Oh, god…" Christine whispered harshly, hardly daring to believe what she was being told.

"That man deserved his head, and more," Margariete continued to bite. "So don't you DARE defend such a monster. You called Erik a monster and yet you make excuses for that THING that thought he had the right to call himself human!"

Erik awoke violently at the sound of Margariete's raised voice, almost falling out of the too-small chair. Slightly disoriented, he listened to what was happening, hoping to figure out what was going on before he raged into the room.

"…Erik a monster and yet you make excuses for that THING that thought he had the right to call himself human!" Erik's heart began to beat fiercely in his chest, emotions swelling heavily within him. If he had thought the cold, harsh voice she had spoken towards him with the night he had thrown her aside was terrible, he knew Christine faced double-fold. The girl's voice was rough with shouting in anger; the echoes reverberating like a thousand tiny children all screaming her agony. She was defending him. It was a concept erik couldn't quite grasp. Never before had anyone defended him… and yet… Erik shook himself. Now was not the time to delve into his emotion. He flew up the stairs, grasping Christine's arm and pulling her to a stand giving her a small shove towards the stairs as Margariete's voice continued to shout blasphemous things at the woman.

"Go! Leave her be!" he directed, pointing farther into the lair. Hesitatingly, not quite sure how to calm her, he sat on the edge of the bed, placing a hand on her shoulder. She flinched, and her shouts were immediately cut off, but she did not move away. She turned her black serpent eyes upon his on cool blue ones.

"She knows nothing of humanity," she said her voice scratchy, but the velvet tone unmistakable. "She dared to call you a monster, and yet she defends that bastard Boquet."

Erik's eyes widened slightly at the strong word she had thrown in to describe the late stage hand, but he did not correct or scold her. It was a fitting description of the man. He had caught him once in the action of ringing a threatening knife to a girl's throat once, and had caught the man's collar in the darkness, threatening to break his neck. The cowardly man had nodded fiercely, unable to see his attacker, and Erik had dropped him, allowing him to scramble out of the room. The girl had not woken from her deep sleep, and the Phantom had disappeared into the shadows. Erik had not regretted killing the stage hand when he did. Erik sighed, letting his hand drop from the now silent Margareite's shoulder.

"Ma chere…Christine was raised with the same beliefs as everyone else in Paris. Yes, she called me a monster… but, she kissed me before she left, leaving me with the knowledge that she did not fear my… deformity. You cannot blame her for that which she did not know."

Margariete gazed at the only man, human for that matter that had ever shown her any love, utterly at lack of understanding his forgiveness of Christine. And yet... if Erik could forgive her… could she learn to as well?


	14. Chapter 14

Despite Margareite's consideration of learning to forgive Christine, her heart still rang with the hate of Buquet, and its residue laid a thin film of unease between herself and Christine. Erik had noted the coldness, but said nothing, glad that at least the two females were not arguing. Within two or so days of Margareite's out burst, she had recovered completely from her small fever, Christine now close to perfect health but for a moment of weakness now and again. The last thought saddened Erik terribly as he gazed at Christine reading a book from his small librabry in the candle light upon the bed, some feet away from the cold Margareite, who had come to ignore the older woman with but a smidgen of respect for Erik by not throwing insults. Pushing thoughts of Margareite from his head, he focused again on Christine, her lovely skin glowing in the candle light, her lashes lowered as she read the book. She sighed, her attempts to calm her breathing shamefully failing her. Erik's mouth twitched as he recalled which of the books she had picked out. When she wasn't looking, he had snuck at peak at the cover and smiled to himself. In his earlier days, he had read anything that he could get his hands on, very often books that the ballet girls had been reading and left unattended. This had resulted in quite a few romance novels ending up on his shelf. And if he remembered corrected, she had chosen a particularly erotic novel that he himself had put down half way through, unable to continue reading a novel that left so little to the imagination.

His eyes darkened to a deeper, cornea blue as his mind inevitably replaced the characters with himself and Christine. He shook his head violently, refusing to let himself to entertain such fantasies. Christine was not his to fantasize about, and that beside the point, she did not deserve the lust of a deformed creature.

Turning away from the thoughts that began to torture him, he strode across the lair and retrieved a wine glass from a small cabinet and poured himself a glass of the heavy red wine. He had done nothing the past day but sit and observe Margareite to ensure that she would do nothing foolish concerning Christine and now found himself board beyond belief, Christine utterly engrossed in the steamy book she had her nose buried in. Sighing with his boredom, Erik decided to have some fun. What else was there to do?

Carrying the glass with him, he strode up the stairs and stopped before Christine. Both girls looked up, Margareite unruffled by his presence, continued to draw upon the paper he had supplied her, while Christine looked up red-faced.

"What is it you read, Christine?" he asked casually, savoring the way her cheeks flamed.

"Oh, just a little nothing," she answered hesitantly. "You know a bit of history." Erik cocked an eyebrow at her and smiled.

"Really?" he asked with an unbelieving tone. "Your lovely cheeks belie you, Christine. By the way, she does end up having his child." Despite his efforts to hide it, a wide grin insisted upon displaying itself across his face and Christine huffed before him.

"Well thank you, but I can read the story on my own," she pouted. She paused then asked, "What does he do with the child?" Erik cocked his head.

"I wouldn't know. I put the book down half way through," he answered. "That point beside, I thought you could read the story well enough on your own." Smiling wickedly, an unholy gleam twinkling in his eyes, he walked back down the stairs.

Margareite watched out of the corner of her sight. She scowled as she wrote another angry note upon the sheet of paper. Likely whoever was having a baby in the novel was facing the reprocussions of a man that had forced her into his bed, she thought bitterly, scratching down another note. This tune, when over looked, was going to be slightly discorordinant and harsh, but not unpleasant to the ear.

After a while of studying the music that Erik had written down, and the way he played it over the ivory keyboard that befitted his organ, she had gathered enough musical knowledge o write simple, short pieces that she played only when both Erik and Christine slept, forcing her play the notes softly, barley whispering the keys beneath her finger tips, or when Christine would wander the labyrinth out of boredom, and Erik had gone out for supplies at the same time Christine had gone on her little adventures, leaving margariete with the freedom t play her music for a time.

Finishing the piece with a loud, ending blast of notes, she took the paper and hid it away in a crevice of the wall that bit deeply into the stone, hiding it from the casual. Her emotions ran through this music. And as apt to music as Erik was, she was sure he could decipher something from such works and was not about to allow it if she could hide the music well enough away. For surely, if he could decipher feelings, then he could pry into her mind deeper then she could allow herself to hide information away. What would happen if he found out? If he knew? If he revealed it to anyone….she shuddered violently, and glared when Christine turned to look at her. If he revealed it….they would surely punish her. It would only be a matter of time before they could lay their bruising hands upon her once again.

Margareite laid her hands upon the milk white keys of Erik's organ, hardly pressing them down. A small whistle of air escaped the pipes, and despite it quiet sound, the total silence of the cave around her as Erik and Christine slept, Erik in the chair once again, Christine in the bed, startled her, causing her to look over at Erik to be sure he did not stir. He didn't. She sighed and turned back to the music. This was her latest piece, and perhaps the most complicated, although compared to Erik's composing, it was as simple as a child's mind. Except hers. Her mind was anything but simple.

Taking a deep breath, she allowed herself to fall into the depths of the music, although forcefully keeping herself aware of how hard she touched the keyboard, so as not to let too loud a sound emit form the large instrument. Her fingers were slightly clumsy over the keys, and the right sound did not always play the way she wanted it, but she found herself lost within the strong sounds of the organ as she played her tune, hardly looking at the sheet of paper. Slowly, she found herself coming to the end of the piece, but she knew there was more to it then she had written. Without skipping a beat, she ran into a new part of the music unwritten, unplanned. Her short fingers barley reached the keys, but she cared not for that matter. Some how, they always found themselves to the right note. Her eyes closed as she brought forth music for the organ. It was angry, hurt, agonized…. And then suddenly calm, quiet, almost peaceful, then rearing up again into a crescendo that she was forced to play as quietly as possible when all she wanted was to blast the sound and allow the note to harrow through her body and flood her ears and heart. But she could not. Sighing, she stopped again, her hands resting upon her lap.

Erik's heart raced as he listened, eyes closed, to Margareite as she played quietly, felling her emotions slide though her fingers, out the pipes, and lance into his heart. There was so much here, in this music, so much emotion. This was not the simple composing of a child. This was the composing as a woman in spirit, of a lifetime of emotions that was being recorded through music for history.

The notes flew to his ears, acting out an unseen event that would calm for a time and then flare up again, tearing and hating and hurting. It was the silent plea and confession of a girl raped more then once. It was pain, crying out through anger at the world that had ripped away her innocence and her young life. And yet… there was something more… something hidden… a detail he did not understand when the music lowered in notes but not in sound, a foreboding feeling wrapping around him and his heart beat heavily as whatever the fearsome thing was drew closer. It was silent for a split second, and Erik nearly sighed with relief, believing it to be over… and then it bit down upon him, the worst of the tearing and ripping that he had witnessed through the notes yet… now the notes became short and stuttering.. Almost… choking. His eyes snapped open with realization of what was happening now. Choking. The scar around her neck. Whatever had been wrapped around her neck was being pulled tighter, and the notes became more desperate. She had put up a fight, revealed in desperate, uncoordinated notes that did not sound like music... and in a way they weren't. They were memories without sight but for her mind. The music rose again hatefully, and then one long note was held out high and piercing. The man had impaled her. It was plain as the girl that sat before him, his eyes now open, and he could see it in the girl's movements. Her body jerked with remembered pain as she played, her hands the only smooth movement. He heard the slightest whisper of clothing in the entrance of the stairs, and glanced at Christine, gesturing her to be silent and not to move. She nodded once, appalled by the way the music was pouring out of the girl, her sobs now ringing out with the crying notes that she created though the keys. Erik watched helplessly as he watched once sparkling tear fall from her young cheek onto the worn keyboard. The pain retched out of her, the keys on the keyboard being played in a noncoherant order, representing her feelings as the pain jumbled her thoughts, one hand playing the pain of her lower body while the other continued playing choking notes…. God she had been choking the entire time….strung up by her neck. Finally, the notes died down into fuzzy, half played notes, and then they stopped all together. Erik assumed his throat tight, that she had fainted at this point.

He gazed over at Christine whose eyes streamed with tears. She understood the music as well. Maybe not quite as well as Erik could, but well enough to see the again and hear the agony that tore through those notes.

Margaretie cursed inwardly to herself as she finished, picking up Erik's labored breathing. He was awake, at least, if not Christine as well. She should have known better then to play longer then what she had written. How could she have been so stupid? Perhaps, if she bit enough at him, maybe, just maybe, he would not pry.

"You understand, Erik?" Margaerite's asked, voice cracking. 'You understand the different moments? You understand the hate. The pain." The last two were statement rather then questions. She heard Erik swallowed painfully.

"Yes," he croaked.

"Good. Now stop pestering me for answers," she finished her voice recomposed and strong now. Ripping the sheet of music off the organ stand, she jumped off the organ, noticing Christine watch as she did so. Prying bitch, she thought harshly. What right does she have to listen? She walked to the lake and tore the paper in a cool, calm manner, and then tossed it into the water.

"This is what is left of my heart Erik," she said, her voice poisonous. "Retrieve it if you will, but you will never reforge where tears that have been made." She stood next to the banks of the lake, unmoving after these words, willing herself not to cry again. She had already cried enough for them. She was not a cursed freak show to watch ad see how many times she could cry.

Silently, Erik padded up behind her, simply standing there for a moment, unsure of how she would react to his touch. Deciding it better to touch then to let her stand, cold and alone in her darkness, Erik knelt next to her, now only a head taller then her, and wrapped her loosely in his arms from behind. She flinched sharply, and he loosened his grip more still, making sure that she knew she could escape his grasp if she wished. When she did not move, he took heart and hummed in her ear a song he made up on the moment's emotional breeze without thought or rhyme.

It was a song of calm, of healing, or forgiving, of learning, and of loving. Its tune was warm and smooth, liquid as the water that lay before them. He allowed himself to loose his thoughts within the tune, healing himself as much as Margareite, at first sprinkling it upon her, then raining his love, and then flooding it over them like a waterfall of gentle waters, strong, but comforting.

Christine stood at the stairs still, marveling at the connection hat woe itself around Erik and Margareite, the magic of Erik's voice no longer rupturing her with danger, but with love and care. The girl stood motionless, tearless, but she could se the girl's eyes close gently in relaxation.

Erik's voice sent a chill down Margaeite, and she closed her eyes as she melt into the love that Erik surrounded her with. His voice at this moment was unlike he had ever heard before, the magic of whatever divine power lay hidden within his heart. His warm tears fell onto the cord connecting her neck with her shoulder, seeping into her with the love and caring that he hummed of now. The vibrations of his voice rumbled gently through her back ad into her heart, sending tremors of love through. Everything about the man that knelt behind her now and hummed in her ear was loving. So very, very loving. If ever there was a single man upon this earth she could trust and love, she knew it was Erik.

Unable to hold back the tears no longer of agony, but of relief, she allowed herself to sob, her body weakening and falling into Erik's own. Without a break in his humming, Erik caught her and lifted her into his arms as she wrapped her own around his neck and cried into is shoulder. Brushing past Christine without a glance, Erik lay upon the bed, his movements slow ad caring, not wanting to scare the child. But she did not react but to roll over and bury her head into his expansive chest and continue to cry. Tears rolling down his own cheeks, Erik held her gently, lovingly. He, too, had finally found some one to love as unconditionally as he loved her.


	15. Chapter 15

"Monsieur DeChaney, I completely understanding your desperation of finding your wife, but I assure you we are looking as best we can," Sergeant Lamar insisted. Raoul Glared at him with death in his eyes. "Without any more information, we can search no faster. You're completely sure that there is no one you can think of that would want to steal her away or hurt her in any way?"

"None but a mad lunatic that is surly dead," Raoul answered gruffly. It had been two weeks since Christine had gone missing, and he had been frantic every day since the morning he had found her missing from her sick bed. He had hardly slept, and when he did, the bouts were fitful, filled with nightmares of finding Christine dead, injured or otherwise, forcing him to keep himself awake with drunkenness. When he was sober, he found himself glad he was not a physical drunk, and he found himself just as bitter sober as when drunk. Although he had found that drunkenness tended to pass time more quickly when he could do thing but sit in his house and hope, pray, and wait for news of his beloved. At first he had argued valiantly that he should be allowed to help the search, but the Sergeant had insisted that he would do nothing be get in the way. After much shouting on his part, and much insistence from the sergeant, he had resigned bitterly to his home, which stood empty and cold without his fiancé.

"Surely we should at least look into the idea of this lunatic being alive," the Sergeant replied, sitting behind his desk of polished a, a pen ready to write notes in his hand. He was a well built man, but not particularly tall. Raoul himself topped his height by a head, and often found that at least when he spoke to this man he was able to look down on him and feel that he was in control in the slightest. Although that slight feeling that he was in control was brushed away easily when they matched eyes, the sergeant's cold green ones biting into his own soft blue. This man was a hardened one that had faced one too many horrors, and it reflected in his emerald orbs vibrantly. His hard face, more often then not set in a grim expression told any that might object to his ideas that he was not one to be trifled with. Raoul shook his head in answer to the man's last comment.

"A mob had searched his home thoroughly after Christine and I escaped it. He would have been forced out to the streets, and he never would have survived there. He knows nothing of the real world, and I can see none taking in the deformed creature," he explained. The Sergeant's sharp eyes registered something.

"Ah, the Phantom of the Opera," he said, interest for once sparking in his tone. He was well fit for his job, but his lack of interest was quite evident. "I have heard about this infamous man. A genius, is he not?"

"Was," Raoul corrected. "He was a genius, mostly in music. Although Christine told me that he was well versed and gifted in architecture as well." The Sergeant nodded, and then frowned.

"But surly, Monsieur, of he was a genius, he could have found himself a way to hide away?" he suggested, biting the tip of his pen.

"A genius he may have been, Sergeant, but a person gifted in communing well with people he was not," Raoul objected.

"He seemed to have trapped you fiancé well enough in a mental trap," the Sergeant answered considering. Raoul now shook his head feverishly.

"He ensnared her easily enough, but he knew many things about her past and used his gift of music to weave a spell around a musical girl. It was much easier then one may think. Christine, as dearly as I love her, does have a fantastical mind at times. It took me quite a while and to the point where I was almost too late to save her before convincing her that he was not, infact, her father's spirit come back to guide her."

In a way, Raoul so adamant against this idea not because he truly was firm in his belief that the Phantom was truly dead, but because he could not, would not accept the idea that the Opera ghost could come back to haunt them. Not after he had risked so much, his life included, to save Christine from his grasps, and he didn't' know if he would win this time if pitted against the man. It had been Christine that had disarmed the creature with a kiss, and though he refused to allow himself to accept the idea that the Phantom had come back to retrieve his prize, he could at least convince himself that if it was at all possible, it would once again be Christine that could save herself more efficiently then he.

The Sergeant sighed heavily, observing the man before him. He was fighting valiantly against the thought that this Phantom could be the culprit of this crime, and in his experience, the most unwanted answer was usually the solution to the crime. But without the employer's permission, they could not take action.

"So you will not give me allowance to look into the idea that this Phantom might be the kidnapper?" he nudged, peering up at Raoul in the candle light. An odd expression crossed his face, then smoothed out,

"It would be fruitless, Sergeant," he answered. "Keep looking as you are-"he held up his hand to cut short the sergeant's objection. "With or without any leads, Sergeant. Continue as you are." The sergeant leaned back heavily into the chair.

"Very well, Monsieur," he answered. "It is your choice. I have another heavy case that I am working on. Sickening, what the world will do."

"And what is so heavy, Monsieur?" Raoul asked out of politeness. The Sergeant sighed again.

"Ah, a group of men, all interconnected one way or the other through family blood or marriage. A heavy history of rape and molestation and a few murders are sprinkled along the family lines committed by the men. It's all too suspicious. I've decided to make it a self granted case. No others will take it, especially since two other Detectives that have turned up dead when researching the family history." Raoul shuddered, and turned quickly to take his leave.

"Be careful then, Sergeant," he answered. "Good day."


	16. Chapter 16

Margareite sat uncomfortably, nibbling at a slice of bread, watching Christine read the book that Erik had teased her about some days ago. She had not had a chance to pick it up since that night, and had gone back to engulfing herself within the paper and print. Her brow would furrow from time to time, and then smooth out. Every now and again, she would sigh deeply, and if she noticed Margareite glance at her during those moments, she would color heavily, and then return to the novel.

Since the night that Erik had cradled her in his arms like a loving father, accepting her tears an swallowing her grief for her, constantly muttering "I'm sorry", not for himself, but for all the wrongs the world had placed upon her. He had cried silently between his apologies for the world, his hot tears falling into the mass of brown locks beneath his jaw, replacing her tears of pain with his tears of relief and love. Slowly, both had fallen asleep, Erik staying awake some time after the young girl had slipped of into a peaceful darkness, but he never left her, never once moved her from his arms. He had kissed her crown lovingly, then laid his cheek upon the soft down of fawn-sleek hair, and drifted to sleep. When he woke, the girl still lay in his arms comfortably, unwilling to leave to protection of his love, but eventually their stomachs had complained so much Erik had suggested they breakfast. Since that night and every day for the next four days after that, Margareite had moved, and still moved, around the Lair confidently, fear and pain residing only in her own mind, no longer shimmering within her oak eyes, although the spheres of chocolate remained worn with the experience of her young life torn away from her.

Looking now at Christine, who had said nothing during the night Erik had held his daughter in spirit, nor in the days after that, simply observing the two humans so wrapped within each other, Margareite found herself feeling guilty. The woman had never spoken a harsh word to her, even when the girl had bitten out at her savagely, compassion shining out through her brown eyes every time she gazed upon margareite. She had thought cold thoughts against this woman out of fear, but now, knowing how deeply entwined Erik had become with her, and she him, he knew that she would not loose erik to Christine. Although she had noticed that Erik was almost completely oblivious of Christine, having blocked out everything in the world but Margareite. And yet, in the days and nights before his revelation, she had seen the wanting, the yearning, and the permanent loss that would yet play itself out once again all threaded to Christine. He wanted her, and it was all to clear. He still loved hr. Before, Margareite would have been jealous of this love, but now she was realizing that this was a different love then the one that held her within. And she would not let anymore pain come to Erik then she could prevent. But until it came down to the days when Christine left, she could do nothing. Now her self appointed task was to befriend the woman that shared Erik's love.

"What do you read?" she asked testily. Christine jumped at her voice, not having expected the genius girl to speak, but then crossed herself, ready to defend her reading f the book.

"Do you tease me for the subject of the novel as well?" she asked in an annoyed tone. Margareite blinked, remembering how Erik had caused her to color vibrantly.

"No," she answered truthfully. "I was simply curious. What could possibly make you color so at the mention of the book?"

"Oh!" Christine's eyes widened. The girl was actually making an effort to talk to her. She almost sighed with relief, glad to have someone to talk to after complete silence the past four days. Who knew such quietness was so easy when stuck with even two people? But then who knew it would be so trying as well? "Well, ah…" she cleared her throat, her expression becoming bemused at the girl's confused look. "It's a romance novel. An erotic one." She rushed the words out, hoping it would dull the meaning, but it did not.

The seven year old child cocked her head, her expression curious.

"Romance meaning story of… love," she analyzed out loud. "Erotic…what does that word mean?" Christine nearly gaped at the girl. She had become so used to the girl's firm grip upon language and her use of it, she had over looked that Margareite was still a child at heart, and at times, did have child's need to learn. "I've never heard that word used before." Christine frowned, thinking of how to explain the word.

"Well... erotic can have many meanings... it often means 'foreign' or 'different'..." she trailed off thinkingof how to explain how the word described a romance novel with explicet intimate scenes.

"Oh," Margareite said, obviously calculating the meaning. "So it is an unusual romance novel?" Christine made an unsure face.

"In a way," she answered. "Rather then your normal romance, it has um…descriptive scenes."

"Desriptive about what?" the girl asked. "Are not all books descriptive? Otherwise it would be rather confusing."

Christine shifted uncomfortably, unsure of whether she should discuss the sex scenes with Margareite after her history. Where was Erik when she needed him? Out gathering supplies under his black cloak, that was where he was. But then… surely, despite how much Margareite trusted Erik, Christine found it difficult for Erik to explain to Margareit about sex scenes, when she was sure he himself was a virgin. She colored yet again, embarrassed about having thought of Erik's non-existent sex life. The girl continued to look at her with utter confusion written across her face. She sighed. Better to tell the girl exactly what she wanted to know, point-blank.

"Um... it describes intimate scenes," she said flatly.

"Sex scenes," Margareite translated. Her eyes darkened for a moment, then cleared again. She loved and trusted Erik dearly… but she could not ask him how real sex worked, nor show him the worst evidence of her past. She trembled as considered what she was about to do. She did not truly want to do it, but she would have to show the damning evidence some day, and she had to do it before she lost her courage. "I have heard from someone that sex is not always bad… that it is not always like…like this." She ran her fingers across the pearl choker that was the most prominent proof of her rough past. "Or like this…" the girl's hands ran along the edge of her skirts, then started to shift them higher on her young legs.

Child's legs. Christine's brown tightened, unsure of the girl's motive in this movement. A voice whispered an idea in the back of her mind, but she shut it out, hoping it would not be so. Despite her hoping, her prayers did not materialize in but the horror that was revealed when Margareite sat open legged, baring her lower region, her skirts hiked to her upper thighs.

The insides of her thighs were marked with hideous, twisted scars; fields of pearly rivers and some lakes that were large sections of the skin injured lay open for the first time willing, unforced for the eyes to behold. Unwantingly, grudgingly, Christine's eyes traveled farther up to the joint of the two legs. It was marred horridly, causing Christine to bite her lip to stop herself from crying out at the ripped and scathed area. She closed her eyes tightly, as she turned away, forcing back tears. So much pain this girl had endured. So much agony. She had not just been raped…she had been torn, mutilated, and it had been done horrendously. She did not open her eyes until she heard the girl's movements still after pulling the skirts back down her legs. "It's not always like that?"

Her voice was desperately quite, almost a whisper, a prayer that her thirteen year old sister had been right. She looked at Christine with pleading eyes, begging her to tell her it was so. Christine's voice cracked as she spoke, but it was sure. She was not lying when she answered.

"No, Margareite, it's not," she said. "If you love the person, if they love you, and they are gentle, it can be a joyful experience."

"Raoul?" Margareite quipped. Christine's discomfort showed vividly upon her face as she nodded. "He is gentle?" She nodded again. "What about the first time. Was it really different your first time, and then the others were better?"

Christine nodded again. She could not believe she was discussing this subject with a seven year old. But then, for once, she had to remind herself she was talking to a genius child. And she needed to be told.

"He was very gentle our first time," she said, her voice a little shifty with unease at speaking about how her fiancé had treated her virgin night. " He waited until I was ready for him to dive in and tear my virgin veil…" he voice warmed with loving memory as she spoke, a soft light shining in her eyes… "and even then, he slid in gently, then he tore it quickly, kissing me… swallowing my whimpers… telling me he loved me, and that he was sorry…and even then he waited until I told him to continue." She smiled warmly, then turned to Margareite, who looked at her with a longing in her eyes. Christine's smile weakened. "I was lucky." Margareite nodded. "One day, you'll find someone to lead you through the first time your ready," Christine assured her, lifting her chin with her fingers gently. "I promise it. Erik and I will never let any harm befall you again." Margareite looked at her with something hiding in her eyes momentarily before fleeting out of view, the expression of uncertainty smoothing over in an instant.

"Can you…explain it?" she asked haltingly, unsure of the question herself. All this time she ha just wanted to figure out how it worked… why it was needed... but not her desperate want to know failed her, but knowing that she would wish she had asked later drove her to ask for an answer to her age-old questions. Christine nodded, and relief flooded through her, having half expected an uncomfortable "no.," from the woman.

"I expect you understand the basic of how the bodies fit together," she began, her voice becoming sure of itself. She had to be strong and unfaltering to show the girl that love making was not as evil an act as it had shoed itself to e to her… but then "love making" was not what had been brought upon her. Rape was what she had experienced. Margareite nodded.

"Some what," she answered. "Why does it hurt?" Christine explained as best she could the concept of a woman's virgin veil, watching the girl soak in the information. The she shook her head.

"But why does it hurt even after that?" she asked. "Why does it hurt…me?" Christine sighed, strengthening herself to answer.

"Your are young yet, Mrgareite, and as you grow, your womanhood grows with you. As does a man's manhood grown with tem. The age determines the size, and when the wrong age sizes at forced together, it could be painful," she explained lamely, sounding stupid even to herself. She sighed. "Margareite, you're womanhood is still very small because of your age, and grown men have forced themselves upon you. They're manhoods are too big to fit into your womanhood that is really yet only a girlhood. Even when the ages are right…the first time the entrance to your womanhood is being torn slightly, stretched uncomfortably. Because you're so small, it was being stretched and torn over… and over again." She paused, shuddering at the thought of the multiple rapes. "That alone is painful, but it is even worse when the woman is not... uh… relasing her...erm…'love juices', which a woman does not when she does not wish to lay with the man." Margareite opened her mouth to question again, but Christine answered before she could speak, one step ahead of her thoughts. "Love juices are... ah... the natural liquid that our bodies release so that the man's manhood slides in comfortably. When we do not, the friction of dry skin is painful." Margareite's mouth opened in a wide "o" of understanding.

Erik sat in the chair, reading a book- or at least trying. Neither female had heard him return with the supplies and he did not want to disrupt margareite's obviously willing learning of sexual activity. Erik blushed at the thought of how he could have explained the aspects of love making with the young girl when he had as much experience with sexual activity as she had. Christine's parting kiss on the night of the fire in the opera house had been his first and only intimate touch but for running his hands along her side, the smooth skin of her neck…he shuddered warmly at the memory, then shook himself immidiatly.

Completely engulfed within his care for Margareite, Erik had managed to push Christine from his thoughts. But even now he could not deny himself that he still loved her. And one way or another, Raoul would deny him his true love once again.


	17. Chapter 17

"Erik, I know you knew that she's been raped, and badly… but you haven't the slightest idea what the experience has done to her body. The scars… those scars were… hideous. You would hardly recognize… it…if you saw the scars that lay homeland harshness upon her young skin."

Erik shivered as Christine told him what Margareite had shown her. Shaking his head and taking a very large, uncomfortable gulp of red wine from a class goblet, he grimaced as his mind conjured, however to his disapproval, the picture of what Christine described.

"I would rather not have any material to imagine that with, Christine," he answered. "I know she has had a horrendous past, I assure you. I could tell you almost everything that happened the night that the music she played recalled. I needn't any other facts to cause me to hate the rapists anymore then I do. I do not think it possible for me to feel more wrath towards them."

"Or him," Christine quipped. Erik looked at her sharply.

"What are you suggesting?" Christine shrugged.

"We know she had been raped multiple times, but we have always assumed it was more then one man," she said. "What if it wasn't? What if it was one bastard?" Erik shook his head in response.

"She once said that sexual please was 'all males wanted'," he answered. "That indicates more then one man. It would lead to the distrust of that one man. But she distrusts any of the males half of the human species." Erik took another sip of his wine. "No. She has been wronged many times, by different men." Christine nodded.

The two sat in silence for a while, Margareite, now rarely rising during the night, dead to the world in slumber, unaware of their conversation concerning her. Erik finished his wine, and Christine stared, with glazed eyes, at the lake that bordered Erik's make shift home. Wishing they wouldn't but unable to stop them, Erik's eyes soaked in Christine's beauty, her side profile exquisite in the candle light, her pale skin illuminated by the soft golden glow of the candles. Her lashes were long and graceful, fluttering down to meet her flawless cheek every now and again. She had steadily been gaining back healthy weight that had been lost during her illness, though now Erik wondered if he should subtly cut back on her rations of food, worried she might gain more then was wanted. He had noticed that she had taken to eating a as a way to pass time when she was not reading. What else was there to do?

All his life since Madame Giry (who had disappeared from his life abruptly, leaving him with the guilt of the possibility that she had died in the fire that he had caused in the opera house, however he had never had but a moment to flit a thought about the woman) had brought him down here, he had entertained himself with his music, his composing. Margareite, however much the genius, was still a child, and fairly easily amused; her gift with music, in which Erik reveled, but had decided to allow her to approach in her own way, also kept the girl steadily extracting the poisonous memories from her mind through the music, which she played unhindered in the presence of Christine and Erik now. But while Erik and Margareote could well enough keep themselves from the flat land of boredom, Christine had nothing but books to write.

Oh, she still had a voice, he was sure. And perhaps they could spend the evenings together singing once again, but Erik shivered at the thought of the memories that such an action might dredge up.

Erik had carefully avoided mention of their past, as had she, and, much to Margareite's agitation, they had padded around the love that lingered in Erik's heart. Both stood knowing what lay beneath the surface when Erik gazed at Christine for extended amounts of time, but neither acknowledged it. Christine's thoughts flitted nervously to Raoul's expression, so similar to when Erik's eyes met with hers, they're cool blue color searing her own, just as Raoul's did whenever he looked at her in all the love and compassion that was thrown about in the throws of passion during the night. And yet in Erik, that expression burned in his eyes in every day life, burning the path of a fiery arrow of love through her heart. But she could not love him. As much as he had changed, as much as she showed his loving care for Margareite, he had still murdered in her name and terrified her for three years. And yet… his eyes had cooled away from the madness that had always heated them, and she found herself wondering, if perhaps, Margareite were the reason he remained sane… or perhaps Christine had been the reason he had gone mad.

"He treats you well?" Erik's expression was one of dead seriousness as he watched Christine jump at the sound of his voice, both having been thinking to themselves for so long that she had almost forgotten that Erik sat five feet away, even while he was in her thoughts.

"Raoul?" she asked hesitantly, fighting not to bite her lip.

"Yes, Raoul," Erik answered, his tone bitter.

'Yes, he treats me well," she answered. When Erik had first stolen her away, she would have retorted angrily, but now she found herself faltering in his hot gaze, shivering in its wake. "He loves me. Otherwise would he not have thought to risk his life to save me?" It was a daring chance, mentioning that night, when despite these months, the wound still lay open for both.

"Do not mock me, Christine Daae," Erik's voice was dangerously quiet and cold. Hurt. "I love you as well as that young fop does and you would be well to recognize his young years for what they are. He is a boy yet and is likely to leave you with nothing if he finds another young girl to take on." He growled so lightly that even he could hardly hear the rumbling, but he could feel it vibrating him his chest. Christine's expression became stricken.

"Do not try to win me back, Erik, with words of trickery and deceit as you did once to ensnare me in your wake," she bit at the Phantom. His eyes narrowed at her.

"You think I do not know that I will loose you once again to Monsieur DeChaney?" he asked acidly. "I know my loss before it endures itself to be, Christine. I do not seek to retrieve you once again from him lusty grasp. I seek only to warn you of his young ways." He stood abruptly, stalking towards the banks of the lake, fighting to control his rage that stood in place of his agonizing wound that was being picked at with each word.

Christine was shaken horribly by his words, refusing to accept them. She stalked after him, grasping his arm as he reached for the long staff that lay against eh rock wall. He turned to her roughly, anger and pain fighting for place upon his expression.

"Erik you know not of love," she said, her expression searching, pleading. "Would that you did you would see the love that floats in his eyes when he gazes at me in the night."

"In the night," Erik snaked out, snatching her shoulders up roughly and digging his fingers into her shoulders, although however angry he was, he was careful for her tender skin. "In the sheets, you mean. Foolish girl! Lust is what sparks in his eyes. Victory. Even he may not realize what he mistakes as love." Christine's eyes were sparkling with unshed tears now, but she refused to let them fall. Was it possible that both young lovers were mistaking Raoul's feelings? Erik' breath was ragged with emotion, and he hung his head. "I know my fate, and it lays forward, one way or another, without you, Christine." He looked up now, locking eyes firmly with her. "But know that forever will my love for you burn in this monster's heart." With a jerk of movement, he brought her hard against his body, kissing her roughly, expressing more then love in the hard kiss. At first she had stiffened, wanting to fight his grasp, but it was too firm. But slowly, as he continued to kiss her for the next moment, frozen in time, despite the lack of reply from her own lips, his kisses became softer, and now that only said good bye, knowing that one day, she would return to Raoul. And while she knew it too, unthinking, and without reason or rhyme, she kissed him back.

Her lips trembled but they were caring, and loving, in a way. Erik's emotions swirled heavily within his heart as he kissed her desperately, knowing that he should not be doing this. It would cause more good then bad. Love and hurt pounding his heart forced him to end the kiss abruptly, but not yet letting go of her frail shoulders.

"I should not have done that Christine," he said roughly. "But it has been done. Take that as my parting gift and vow of eternal love." He let go of her shoulders now, his arms dropping heavily to his sides. Turning dejectedly to the wall again, he took up the staff and stepped into the gondola, the water rippling from the movement. "There is a small boat that I do not use hidden in the crevice behind the left flank of the wall." His voice was shaking now, but he held strong. "Take the main water way until you reach the end of the water ways." No longer able to hold back his tears, a single drop trailed down his cheek. "When I return, I will expect to find you gone. Say your good bye to Margareite, and then be on your way. It is time for you to leave. I took you in to care for you until you were well. And so you are. Farewell, Christine Daae."

With that, he pushed the gondola off and disappeared into the darkness of the yet unlit water ways. The last she saw was the flash of the silver encrusted staff turning the small boat onto one of the side way water ways.


	18. Chapter 18

Raoul bit down into a browning apple that had been sitting into his hand for at least ten minutes, his jaw sore from being clenched so tightly while he was in thought. Day after day, week after week, Sergeant Lamar had come up with nothing fresh. No leads, no clues. Finally, Raoul had to admit defeat, finally beginning to accept the idea that Christine might very well be dead by now…dead.

The word rang painfully in his mind, cold and untouched to be connected with her. His beloved fiancé, dead… her body lying cold and soulless somewhere in the sewers of Paris. But surly if she were dead as such they would have found a body? OR perhaps she had been buried hap-hazardly, unceremoniously dumped into the ground, her lovely body falling limply into the unmarked grave…

He bit down so hard once again into the apple that his teeth clashed in meeting despite the fruit between then. He fought tears desperately, chewing harshly, grinding his teeth. A small sniffle escaped him, and he threw the apple in anger at the world for what it had done with his life. It was a cruel thing, the world, tearing his life apart so young. To force him to loose the one he loved so desperately. He had given everything to see her safe and secure, to hold her and cherish her. She was a shining jewel that had graced his life with her love, but now his heart ripped away with that jewel that had disappeared into the mists of the night. What was there to live for now that Christine was gone?

Christine kissed Margareite's forehead lovingly, brushing a stray tendril of brown curls from her face. The girl stirred slightly, her eyes opening heavily.

"Christine?" even as the genius she was, her childly actions when she was half awake reminded Christine of the sweet girl that lay beneath the brains and scars.

"I am going now, Margareite," Christine whispered, glad that her shaking voice was disguised by the quiet breathy tone it carried. "I must go. Remember that I love you dearly and that you are free to find me, and ask me for help at anytime." A tear slid down her cheek in the darkness, and she sniffled. Her heart rang with the longing to stay with this child, but Erik had dismissed her and she could not stay where she was not welcome. It would cause strife between all of them and she would not be the cause of that.

"What?" Margareite asked sharply, now fully awake, but still rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "What do you mean leaving? Why are you leaving?" Her eyes became stern suddenly. "It is Erik's stubborn heart isn't it? He's sending you away."

"Yes, he is sending me away, Margareite," Christine answered, her voice cracking, even as a whisper. She could hear the girl take a breath to speak ad shushed her. "Margareite listen to me. I believe when he took me, he was still rather obsessed with me and had nothing else to love for. But now he has you to live for, and your love, I think, is all he needs to survive. I must go, before I cause more complications then I already have. I must return to Raoul. He is, after all, my fiancé-"her voice choked again, and a small sob escaped her. Raoul. Oh she did miss him desperately…despite Erik's words, which she had push from her mind, keeping in her thoughts his expression of ultimate sacrifice to save her that night down the Lair. He did love her. Erik's mind had found itself another route o explain to himself why Raoul was less deserving of her then he, and was he not once a mad man? A mad genius was what he had been, and even with Margareite leveling his sanity, Christine worried that his madness teetered on edge, and if she did one more thing to cause him pain, that madness might tip over and fill his mind once again. Better to leave as he asked and return to the man she loved… or thought she loved. What of the kiss that she had returned without thought? She had been numb at the touch of his lips and her body and met his in the kiss willingly after a moment, almost… wanting. Christine physically shook herself, forcing her body to compose itself. "He is my fiancé, and I love him. I must return to him. Stay with Erik, Marareite, keep him happy. He deserves it so much."

Margareite stared into the light so dim it barley outline Christine's slender form, at a loss of words. Christine? Leaving? Now? After she had revealed so much to her?

"You can't!" she expelled, throwing herself to Christine's body and wrapping her little arms around the frail woman. "You can't! You know too much!"

"What?" it was Christine's turn to be aghast now. 'What do you mean?" Margareite was pleading now, desperately.

"You can't leave! You know what they did to me now! IF you let it slip, if they find out, they'll find me I know they will! They'll take me again! And they're hurt me again! You can't go!" she was babbling, making no sense to Christine.

"What are you talking?" she asked, grasping the girl by the shoulders and pulling her away, lowering her face so that they're brown gazes was level. "Margareite, who? Who will hurt you again?"

"Them! The ones that did all this to me!" Christine could feel her gesture to her scarred body. "Father, and Uncle Andrew, and Uncle Françoise, and Grandfather! And all the others! Others I didn't know, others I didn't recognize!" the girl was sobbing now, Christine's eyes wide with shock and fury, nearly gagging. Biting her lip to stop the reflex to vomit, she pulled Margareite to her with a will, hugging her tightly to her form. Margareite was muttering incoherent thoughts now, in between sobs.

Sighing, Christine forced her own sobs to subside to give the child a firm body to lean against. As much as she felt for the girl, she could not let this lessen her resolve. She must leave. Erik could care well enough for the girl.

"Margareite, I won't tell a soul," she assured her, running her hands along the bed tousled hair. "No one, not even Raoul. I swear to you, none shall find out and she shall live happily with Erik. I will never tell anyone, and Erik will forever love and protect you. If you ever need me, though, are ever in need of any assistance, come to me, and I will do the best I can." The girl's sobs were subsiding now, and she looked up, the light for a single tiny candle reflecting her brown eyes. She nodded.

"Promise?" she asked, pleading.

"I promise, my little Oak Eyes."

Raoul's tears had quickly subsided, high culture upbringing having taught him to hide his emotions well. Now he sat with a brandy in one hand and a book that his eyes uselessly scanned over in another. He had found that if he drank enough of the harsh brandy, he could force his thoughts away from Christine….

"Raoul."… or so he thought. Even in a drunken stupor her voice haunted him. He shook his head and turned the page even though he had never actually read the previous length of words.

"Raoul." That voice was so real, like it was just in the doorway… curiosity got the better of him, and he looked sharply at the door way, expecting to find it totally deserted and empty…

…but it wasn't. Before him stood a simply dressed Christine, the flush back I her cheeks, her hair done up pleasantly, but not in a complicated style, her eyes shining brightly.

"Raoul."

"Christine!"

Bolting from his chair and dropping both book and glass, caring not from the brown stain that spread upon the expansive carpet, he bundled her within his arms, kissing her desperately, longingly, sobbing once again with the relief that flooded through her.

"What- how?" he stuttered, his drunkenness slightly slurring his words.

Christine frowned slightly at the taste of heavy brandy on his breath as he kissed her, but rejoiced in his jubilant reaction to her return and kissed his back hungrily.

"Don't ask me, Raoul, please. I am well and that is what matters," she assured him. "I have returned to you."

Raoul nodded dumbly, wrapping her in his arms once again, sobbing into her neck.


	19. Chapter 19

"Erik you blind hearted, stubborn idiot of a man!"

Margareite's angry voice greeted him the moment he returned to the lair. He had been expecting such a reaction, and subsequently chose to ignore the girl. She was a child. What could she know of such love? He breeched the banks of the lake, and leaned the staff against the wall, walking mindlessly to the cabinet containing his wine supply. Without taking a glass, he uncorked a bottle and took a deep swig, almost choking as he swallowed the bitter taste.

He almost wished he hadn't sent Christine away, but he had found himself becoming far too attached t her once again. Better to send her away the than wait until e could not stand to release her. What was he thinking? He would never be able to stand to release her. He had forced himself to release her, but the cold emptiness of loss once again shrouded his heart in its dark blanket. He shook his head, muttering to himself slightly.

If she had stayed, if he had allowed her continue living with him in the mock happiness that has swirled during the time she had been there, he would most defiantly allow the insanity that sat crouching in the back of his mind waiting for a trigger. He could not allow himself to believe that she loved him; if she had stayed it would have inevitably brought him to the thought that she might possibly love him back. Yes, oh yes, he knew the workings of his insane mind. It was said by the medical books that eh had read that psychotics didn't know they were psychotic. Well this psychotic did. He knew that there was a part of him, if triggered, or allowed to be released, that was over run by the insanity that had gripped him during the three years he had stalked Christine. He was almost rather embarrassed about the idea that when in that state of mind he had watched her as she did positively everything but for showering and caring for her private needs. He found himself almost split into two people: Erik and The Phantom of the Opera. Erik was the child within him that had not yet lost its entire child like need for love and care. The Phantom of the Opera was the deformed monster that had gone insane with the hatred and cruelty of the world. And yet both were one, and every now and again, Erik had found it hard to balance it so that neither tipped, but his mind stayed sane, whenever Christine showed any kindness towards him. The Phantom had whispered in the back of in the back of his mind words of encouragement, thoughts that perhaps Christine was coming to love him. Those were the time when he usually fled out to the water ways or to the wine cabinet. And so he did now. He took another hard swallow, his lips staining slightly red from the rich coloring of the wine.

"Erik are you listening to me?" Margaretie demanded, raising her voice some. The Phantom man ignored her completely, lost in thoughts, his eyes haunted. He took yet another draft of wine, a single drop trailing down the corner of his mouth on the unmasked side. Disgusted with him pathetic reaction to his own orders for Christine to leave, Margaretie growled and snatched the heavy bottle from his hands and throwing it into the lake. Erik jerked to catch it but knew it was long gone.

"Erik straighten up and talk to you dumb-witted harebrain!" she threw the insults at him in hopes of gathering his attention towards her, so that she might extract some reasoning to him exile of Christine. Her hopes were futile however, for rather then reacting in anger at he words, he stared at the lake, his eyes distant as he spoke.

"Harebrained…" he muttered quietly. "Yes, yes, I am insane if the scale is tipped correctly." With that he strode to the stairs, moving with the weariness of a man that had been out all night. Margareite shook her head with an annoyed air, remembering tat he had indeed, been out all night. Erik flopped on the bed without his normal grace, rolling onto his side. Sighing heavily, Margareite marched up the stairs and crawled onto the bed next to him, sitting before his lengthy figure. Deciding that insults had t worked she went in straight for the kill.

"Erik why did you send Christine away?" she asked harshly. She thought she saw him wince slightly, but wasn't entirely sure. "Erik you _love _her. I could see it in your eyes and you cannot possibly deny it. She would have stayed for you if you had not sent her away!" Erik's eyes closed and she literally growled now with and angry will. She hated doing this, but it had to be done. She saw no other way to gain the Phantom man's attention. Shaking with the anticipation of his reaction, knowing that if she did not scramble away quickly enough he could very well throw her in anger, she reached out, tearing the mask from his face, rolling akimbo off the bed and onto the floor without a second's time wasted.

Looking up, she almost gasped, but bit her lip, knowing that the reaction would cause even more anger if she showed horror at the deformity that lay before her. The once-masked side of his face was nothing like the other; his eyes socket was sunken in terribly, his eye's brightness the only thing that kept his eye visible, his nose not completely formed on that side, its skin potted and clinging to bone, empty space where cartilage should have been, his cheekbone ridged in what looked terribly uncomfortable. Everywhere on that side of his face, the skin was red and looked irritated, and slightly iridescently shiny.

But Erik hardly reacted. He looked at her with the sad eyes of a wounded beast, knowing it was trapped.

Only he was trapped by his own mind rather then an iron cage. Turning slowly, he pivoted away from her sight. No point in forcing her to look upon his deformation. Surely she would request to leave now, if not simply run with a will to the gondola and charge from the Lair without a glance back. He closed his eyes against the shuddering knowledge. With a shaking sigh, he spoke.

"You are free to go if you wish Margareite," he said quietly. "There is no point in you staying here knowing the monster that lay before you every time to look at me. I give you your leave to go. You are in perfect health now. The condition was that I would care fro you until you were well. The condition has endured itself. Go with my good will."

A rustle of clothing sounded behind him, and he waited for the sound of quickly pattering feet as she ran form the room, but the sound of her tiny bare feet pattering on the ground was slow and sure, stopping before him. He opened his eyes to see the pair of child's feet before him and he raised his head, waiting for the girl to run at second sight of the deformity that had cursed him. But she didn't her eyes were filled with tears, as she placed a gentle hand upon his face. Erik flinched but did not pull away.

The skin was hard and almost smooth about the ridged cheekbone, but the texture softened as she let her small fingers trail down his cheek. A tear escaped her Oak Eyes, and she leaned forward gently to hiss the deformed skin; it was not the kiss that had been Christine's but it was much braver. His lips had remained properly formed, and Christine has kissed him upon his normal lips, but now this girl bestowed upon him a child's unfearing kiss.

It was her goodbye, he was sure. Both girls would say goodbye in the end. He was meant to be alone, cold and lonely fro eternity. It was proving itself in the kindest, and yet cruelest way it could. Erik closed his eyes again against the tears that threatened to leak from his clear blue eyes, now rimmed with the silver of hurting tears.

"We can be deformed together Erik."

Margareite's voice was as clear as an angel's bell and his wet eyes snapped open in surprise. She was smiling gently at him.

"You may not be able to see the worst of my scarring, Erik," she said as he looked at her questioningly. "But there are parts of me that are just as deformed as your face because of their blades and hands." She ran her hand over his foul face again, her gentle caress warm upon cold skin. "Only those of us that are this deformed know that pain of the longing for a perfect body and mind. We are both deformed onside and out. But we can be deformed together." She lowered her voice to a whisper as Erik took her little hand from his ace and covered it in his own. " And if those of us that are deformed like this don't stay together, then we will only prove ourselves truly monsters to leave the other in need of company lonely and sorry."


	20. Chapter 20

And the Deformed Ones did stay together, caring for each other, utterly wrapped within their own world. Another three months passed without excitement, Margareite eventually convincing Erik to walk free about the Lair without his mask. Erik, however, was still tickled with guilt at the back of his mind. There was little he could do to reassure Margareite for her deformation. He knew her worst scarring was between her legs, and upon the inner thighs, thus she could not walk freely baring her "deformation." Never could he lay gentle, caring hands upon the raised ridges of skin as she had his face. It worried him that it would be a long while before the girl could possibly receive a loving touch there, and he wondered if those years would permanently convince her, as his face had him, that she could never be loved by a normal person for such markings.

And yet as much as he thought heavily upon this subject, he found the only way he could reassure her was simply be kind to her as no other man had. And so he did, caring for her more then he had ever cared about any other human being, even more so then when he had been obsessed with Christine. He offered her everything he could, his heart laid out upon a platter, and she held that heart close to her as she confessed her life.

As the weeks had gone by, Erik had finally been able to nudge her into talking. It had been hard for her at first, tears always spilling over as she talked. Eventually the tears stopped and she would stare ahead as she talked, her eyes haunted with memory. Each night she would tell of a different encounter with men. And yet, she never revealed their names. She always called them "He", never once giving a clue to who they might have been. Little did she know that combined with the music that she continued to compose and play, her confessions explained almost everything to Erik. He still had yet to figure out who these men were, but he had wondered, many a-time, how one girl could possibly had so many run-ins with men that would rape her body and soul. But eventually he had figured it out, it's terrible truth hitting him as, once again, one of the piercing notes as "He" penetrated.

It was a network. A string of men all interconnected. It was a family, or club of men that used the women somehow forced in to their every sexual whim, possibly, Erik considered, using the babes that were the results of such abuse, as their newest victims. It only made sense. How else would Margareite have fallen into those hands at such a young age. Such thoughts led him to believe that her mother was one of the forced victims, possibly dead by now due to some disease contracted, her father one of the men that pleasured himself within the network. Erik thought about the first experience that Margareite had confessed. When she had told him of the first time she could remember, he had been numb with shock. She had been four at the time, forced into unspeakable things. Now, thinking back on the horrid revealing of such an experience, Erik found himself gagging, his stomach threatening upheaval.

Swallowing down the bile that threatened to raise havoc in his body, he breathed heavily as Margareite ended the composition with a saddening sound. She twisted upon the organ bench to face him, frowning at the side of his face that had turned an ashen grey, but said nothing. She was used to the coloring of his face belying his simple acceptation of her past. She knew that it sickened him at times, and had once caught him vomiting after the confession of a particularly horrific time. What she hadn't told him was that it had been her own father. Or so she had suspicions. It had never been proven to her, and she had never asked; they had not been allowed to speak. But she had been a spitting image of the man that had frequently "used" her, and she had begun to wonder. She smiled bitterly, sickly to herself at the thought of how badly Erik would have reacted to her suspicion. The smile, however sick, became, if possible, sicker. It was not a smile of amusement. A smile of horror. A smile of a slightly disturbed mind.

Such a smile was to be expected of her, Erik thought. He recognized the smile that had often spread itself across his lips more then once in his life time. He was curious as to the thought that had brought that twitch of the lips to her, but then, upon second thought, he decided it was better not to pry for that thought. He didn't really feel like having the bile rise within him.

"It's been six months you know," Margaretie said, the smile disappearing off her face as she thought about how long she had lived in peace. Erik's brown pinched together, then nodded slowly.

"I suppose it has been, hasn't it?" he answered slowly. "Since I saved you." A teasing smile twitched on his lips. The girl's face formed a pout.

"I think I saved you, Erik," the girl answered with an equally teasing tone. Erik's smile faded, and he nodded seriously.

"You did, Margareite," he answered, his face genuine. His eyes clouded over, and Margareite's brow pinched. He was going to ask her questions again; she had quickly learned to pick up the change in the shade of his eyes when he was about to bring up her past. "Margareite…your family…who were they?"

Margareite blinked blindly at him for a moment. After all this time he asked her now? What was she to say? "I'm not entirely sure who my mother was. The stabbed her to death after raping her before my eyes to show me my future when she refused to give me to them"? O for her father? "I think he was one that tended to favor me"?

"Dead" she answered hollowly. At least she was telling part of the truth. She hated lying to Erik. But no longer could she deny him answers.

"How did they die?" Erik asked gently, his question as sharp as the knives that had flash before it cut into her. She winced.

"I don't know," she lied, her eyes averting from his own. She was lying. Her refusal to look at him belying her words.

"You do know," Erik insisted quietly. "Tell me." She shook her head.

"I don't know," she answered again.

"You do. Please, talk to me, Margareite. I figured it out. You were in the enslavement of a network of meant hat paid for your use…along with others?" his last words were a question, unsure of his guesses. Margareite's eyes closed tightly. She nodded slowly, painfully.

"And your mother was one of those women, wasn't she?" Again the girl nodded. "And your father? He paid for use of the network didn't he?" She bit her lip to keep down a sob before answering,

"I'm not sure, but I think I knew which one he was."

Erik's hands shook in anger as he clenched them, taking a deep breath. He could not let this pass. What if they were abusing others as they abused Margareite. Other wonderful girl's like Margareite that just wanted love and-

" Mommy was only fourteen," Margareite's voice was cold, numb, and so quiet he could hardly hear her. "She wouldn't give me to them, so they snatched me from her…they raped her in front of me, told me that was my future… and then they stabbed her to death. Said she was useless now that she had given birth. And that if I ever gave birth I would meet the same fate she did…"

Erik bit his cheek until he tasted blood, his nails cutting into his palms harshly. He tried desperately to hold himself back, fighting the urge to force the knowledge of the whereabouts of these men out of her, and rush there and end all of their lives. But he could not, not without pushing Margareite too far. He held out his arms to the child, and she encircled herself within them, burying her face in his chest, and he held her tightly, never wanting to let her go.


	21. Chapter 21

Sergeant Lamar turned away from the body that lay strewn before him, ripped and torn by a dull knife. The blood pooled in drying puddles around the starved body the smell of death reeking within hi nostrils. He shook his head heavily, striding over to the Chief of Police.

"Latest one this month sir," the man said, his face worn and tired.

"When was she discovered?"

"Last night, sir." Lamar glanced at the man sharply.

"Last night?" he bit out. "Why wasn't I informed _last night_ then?"

"She was already dead sir, and it was four in the morning. We knew you would be sleeping," the man's tone was bored, not caring. Lamar said nothing, biting down on his temper. The Chief had discovered three of the five bodies that had been discovered in the past month, all in the west ends of town. All murdered the same way.

"She's a full mile from the last body site," Lamar thought out loud. "Their trying to throw us... doing the murders far away from each other, so we don't know where their baised."

"And doing a damn good job," the chief answered. "Do you know how many pimps hold their business in the west end? It could be any one of the five."

"Yes, but only one of them is known to get rid of his prostitutes when they become useless to him," Lamar quipped. "I think it's time to visit him again."

"But sir, we've questioned him twice already," the chief replied. "And he _sells _his useless women."

"Yes, but if he gets rid of them and trades, perhaps he knows another that _kills _his when they become useless," Lamar said thoughtfully. "Learn the tricks of the trade, man. If you can whip your tong the right way, you'd be amazed what business partners reveal about the other."


	22. Chapter 22

Christine sighed, placing the book down, nibbling, rather unlady like, upon her nail as she thought. Her brows were pinched lightly, her pale skin glowing in the candle light.

At first, upon Christine's return, she had been just as closely glued to Raoul as he had been her, snatching a kiss and hand squeeze at every available minute. The first few weeks' nights had been engulfed within clinging love-making, but as the weeks had worn on, Christine found herself less inclined to stick to her fiancé's side every moment of the day. Raoul, on the other hand, had gone to great lengths to stay by her side. It came to the point where she would slip out of the bed in the dead of night, Raoul having exhausted himself (and ashamed as she was for it, she had allowed him to put forth all the exertion, so she would not sleep through the night) and spend time in the library reading, just to get some private time to herself.

It was all too much. Even being in the house, knowing that Raoul could come in search of her at any moment, she felt suffocated. Pushing herself to a standing position, she strode to the large entrance of the enormous library, its arched doors imposing themselves upon her. She glared at the rich wooden beams, daring them to close their doors to her, to stop her from escaping her gilded cage. Grasping a cloak from the coat stand just outside the doorway, she rapped it about herself. She needed fresh air, and time to herself. A brisk walk in the night air might do her some good.

Slipping out the doorway of the manor silently, she padded down the stone steps, the night air filling her lungs exhilaratingly with cool, crisp air. She breathed deeply, closing her eyes and feeling the light night breeze whisper against her fine skin. Smiling to herself slightly, she made her way down to the stables without a sound.

The light, white material of her night-dress flittered against her legs, her wrap covering her normally straight shoulders that were slumped with repression. She supposed that riding in a night shift and fine Turkish slippers and a simple wrap was not the best of ideas, but surely a short ride along the higher-ends of Paris that moved not a whisper in the night could not hurt. Perhaps a quick trot down a street or two, then turn back, nothing more.

She entered the stables, her breath in taking the aroma of saddle soap, hay, and grain. A few horses nickered at the sound of the barn entrance creaking as it opened, but otherwise made no sound. She smiled to herself, a bit more strongly, and began to make kissing sounds as she walked down the isle of sleeping horses. A single horse some three stalls down stuck her head out of her half-door, snorting softly. Christine reached the stall, stroking the mare's fine nose with her delicate hands, her gentle touch calming the horse. Gathering a brush from the bucket on the wall, she opened the stall door and slipped in, the dim light of the ever-lit oil lamps, perched high up and away from danger, reflecting the mare's chestnut coat. It shimmered brightly as the horse shifted her footing to nudge Christine lovingly with her muzzle. She was a fine specimen of a horse, a rare beauty among Hanoverian mares. The breed was sticky and sturdy, big and strong, magnificent creatures, but few had the fine lines and graceful curves that this mare carried.

"There now, pretty one," she murmured, stroking the horse's flanks and shoulders. She needn't be brushed. The young stable boy had done a fine job before closing up for the night. Her lips twitched in remembrance of how the boy blushed in her presence. He was twelve, maybe thirteen, but he had a way with the horses, and always took special care to be sure that Christine's mare was in perfect care. Raoul had gifted the fine creature to her as a return present, and she had fallen in love with the beauty that stood before her, her name reflecting her exquisite air- Mystique Mastery. And the mystique of beauty melded with strength had been mastered in the mare before her.

Clipping the lead-rope to the mare's halter, she led her to the main isle, saddling and bridling her deftly. If there was one thing she was grateful to Raoul for before all others, it was his allowance of her unlady-like connection to animals. Any other husband would more likely have ordered her banned from the stables and riding all together perhaps.

Grasping the reigns, Christine mounted the sixteen-hand mare with ease, but found that her night-shift hand been shifted up just below the joint of hip and leg. She had long ago refused to ride side-saddle, but now she supposed it was not a bad idea. Her skirts during the day were large enough to flow over the mare's flanks and shoulders, but this night-shift was proving problematic, modesty wise. Sighing, she shook her head. And who would be there to see her bare legs but the night air itself? None. Unlike the lower part of the city, the aristocracy did not travel out at night, so she saw no harm in riding out as such. Shaking her head, she nudged the mare with her heals gently. The horse set out at a walk, her muscles moving liquidly beneath Christine.

She held her breath until she reached the gate, sure that at some point, someone must have heard her. But none did. Releasing her breath with a joyful will, she squeezed the mare into a joyous canter, feeling the mare's muscles bunch and her body rock in smooth motion as her hooves clipped lightly upon the cobble stones of the streets. Christine's smile now spread itself brightly across her faces and she leaned forward, urging her horse onward.

It was not until she felt the mare's breathing disrupt her powerful stride that she pulled her mount to a stop, stoking her and murmuring loving words in the creature's ears. She leaned forward, kissing the mare's neck, then sat up-right, looking about her. She had foolishly ridden into the breaking point of the lower and higher parts of the city. One or two random women, more likely the lowest of whores, if they were this far out of the lower city, passed by, but said nothing. Christine cursed herself for allowing herself to run the mare this far, and wheeled her steed about, nudging her into a gentle walking pace, wanting to escape the area quickly, her legs bared uncomfortably openly, but she did not want to push the tired mare to hard so soon after such a long bout of cantering.

"'ey miss!" Christine's breath caught as she heard a man's voice call out to her. She pretended to ignore the voice, squeezing the mare into a quicker pace. The horse's stride opened into longer stretches reluctantly, but obediently. "Miss! Please! 'avn't you not any money for a poor sod like myself?" His voice was closer, and she could hear his footsteps quickening to keep up with the horse. If she pushed the mare into a run, would a pull out a knife or gun? "Please mademoiselle! Any money at all!" His voice was next to her leg now and she could not ignore him. She pulled her horse to a stop, looking down at the burley man that stood by her exposed knee. She prodded the mare over farther away from him, biting her lip.

"Sir I carry no money," she said tightly, her voice quiet. "Please leave me be."

"But surely a beautiful lady such as yourself…" the man's hand rested upon her bare knee, and she pulled the mare farther to the side sharply. The horse skittered, her head raised, feeling the fear emanating from Christine. The man stepped forward again, this time placing his hand farther up her leg, mid-thigh.

"Un-hand me, sir, or I shall call the police upon you!" she bit out, trying to push his hand away, but it did not budge. A flash from his other hand caught her eye as he raised a large, sharp knife aloft in his broad hand. Gasping, Christine went to kick the mare into a hard gallop, and the horse lunged, only to whiney in desperate protest as she was jerked by the reigns, her hooves chipping hard against the stones of the street. The man's hand clamped a harder grip up her leg, Christine raising a hand to strike the man, for his to release the reigns, but he raised his knife to block her blow, her hand slicing itself across the metal blade. A deep gouge bit into the back of her hand, causing her to cry out, and distracting her momentarily.

The moment's distraction proved her undoing. Without a moment to spare, the man grasped her arm, hauling her from the mare, releasing the horse in the process of holding her fighting body fast. The mare reared in fear, setting off at a dead gallop back the way they had come.

Christine tried to bite down upon the man's dirty hand, but it held tightly to her tender skin, chafing her neck terribly as she attempted to scream, and cutting off the cry. He swung her about roughly to face him, striking her across her fine-boned cheek, the deep aching telling her that he had caused a bruise upon her pale skin. But she cared not for the injury. She kicked at him violently, hoping to catch his crotch but he dodged and threw her to the ground roughly, her head striking the cobblestone painfully, the rack of the impact making her dizzy. He came down atop her, his knees trapping her arms painfully heavily, and sitting upon her ribcage and stomach making it almost impossible to breathe. He leaned down, kissing her roughly, his breath stinking of stale liquor. She turned her head away, gagging violently. He struck her again, splitting her full lip, smiling viciously as even then she fought to gouge his eyes with her hands, but he evaded and held them bone-crushingly hard in hi grasp.

"Yes," he growled. "You'll do just fine. Just fine."


	23. Chapter 23

Erik rolled in his sleep hap-hazardly, his brow unconsciously knit, his back turned to Margareite who slept soundly on the other side of the bed.

_...Christine scratched at her captor, crying out when the man bruised her eye with a point-blank punch. She fought to escape his grasp, her breathing ragged with exhaustion, her night-shift ripped and torn, one shoulder of the material hanging uselessly to the side, baring one naked breast. The skin of her chest sported numerous scathes and shallow bruises that ached purple-blue…_

…Erik sounded in his sleep, his hands gripping the silk and velvet sheets roughly in anger. Margareite awoke to the sound of his voice, sitting up in sleepy confusion as she noticed his hand's death grip upon the sheets. She placed her hands gently upon his own, trying to relax them, but his grip was firm, as he twisted in distress…

_... "Don't fight it now, mademoiselle," a gruff, unmannered voice spoke in Christine's ear, her head turned away, her legs still kicking. "You're be doin' a good favor to the men here. They's all achin' for fresh, well bred skin." Christine twisted her head and spit desperately in his eye. The captor jerked back in surprise, letting her go for a quarter of an instant. She scrambled away, but he was upon her before she gained her feet even, back handing her so that she reeled dizzily, her sight blacking out momentarily. _

"_The game is over with me," he growled visciously. "But you'll do well enough for the rest of 'em. They's all hard when the rats put up a good fight." He wrenched her head back by her full hair, placing the cold blade to her throat. She froze at the feel of the blade at her neck, her chest rising and falling quickly, her naked pale, naked breast gleaming in the candle light…_

…Margareite was desperate night, shaking Erik with a will, doing her best to wake him up, but the Phantom man would not wake from his nightmare, mumbling now.

"Christine…hands off…" Margareite's hands flew off of his body momentarily, thinking that he was speaking to her, but soon realized he spoke to some menace in his night-terror. Once again she fought to wake him

"Erik! Erik! Wake up you stubborn-headed mule!" she was patting his face rather sternly, but still he reacted to her not, completely lost within the dream entrapping him…

…_He led her thought streets that remained relatively quiet, only whores with hardly any business noticing them, but doing nothing to help the fighting girl. The man pushed her forward sharply from time to time, causing her to trip and knick the shallow of her throat more then once upon the knife constantly threatening her life. She became blind to where they walked, her head forced upwards, she only was able to view the night sky that swirled dizzily as the man pushed her periodically. \ Finally, they stopped, her legs and back aching form the position she had been forced to walk in, then thrown into a cold room, a door slamming behind her, her face smacking the cold dirt floor with a sound crack…_

Now Erik did wake, sweat dampening his temples and frightening Margareite with the abrupt wakefulness.

"Erik! Good Lord, man, finally!" she scolded. "I thought you would never wake from that fit."

Erik sat up, shaking in residual anger, running his hands over his unmasked face. He sighed many time before catching his breath, his hands however, continued to shake violently.

"What did you dream of, Erik?" Margaretie asked gently, curled up to his side and laying a hand upon his bare arm comfortingly. He had long ago been able to abandon his caution of showing skin for Margareite's sake, the girl no longer fearing him in the slightest, and had moved to sleeping topless. Her cool touch soothed him slightly, and he looked at her, her Oak Eyes wondering and caring.

"Christine…" he began. Margareite's brow pinched. "She was kidnapped by a large man and as beaten brutally…thank gods it was only a dream. If it were not I may just have had to go after her again."

Margareite shivered, remembering the pointless beating sessions that had been laid upon her from time to time without reason or rhyme, even without a raping involved. Erik gathered her in his arms, hugging her tightly when her eyes closed. He recognized the expression easily now for a memory that ran rampant through her mind, and automatically found himself keeping her close. She melded into his arms easily, her mind turning from the flashes of memory vision and engulfing itself within his emanating love. Yes, thank gods it was only a dream, for she would never wish her past upon any other woman, least of all Christine.


	24. Chapter 24

She lay for a moment without moving, savoring the unviolent darkness that blanketed her beaten and bruised form. Her whole body felt ached and torn, her head spinning with the pain of numerous blows to her skull. She was sure that every bone in her body was shatter, every inch of skin torn. She did a mental check of her injuries, gratefully discovering that she only had one rib that ached menacingly, but despite the pain that her body sported, her most prominent wound was the gouge out of her hand.

She moaned and shifted uncomfortably, the small stones of the dirt floor biting into her bard breast and legs. The movement was painful, but not impossible. Gathering her strength, she pushed herself up into a sitting position, looking around in the dark room. Through one unswollen eye she spied four vague forms huddling in the barley perceptive darkness.

"Hello?" she croaked her voice rouge from her yelling and screaming. She heard a movement from her right, but otherwise received no answer. "Hello?"

"So how'd the bastard come across you?" a cold, hardened voice asked. It belonged to a woman, though Christine could not tell her age from the rouge timber of her voice.

"I was riding…he wanted money…" Christine shuddered, still hardly able to comprehend what had happened. Two kidnappings in three months. _I'm never leaving the manor after this again;_ she thought to herself, then crossed her thoughts. How did she know she would ever even see the manor again? Or Raoul?...or Margareite…or Erik. Her eyes shut tightly against this last thought. She could not entertain such morbidities. At the moment, in her situation, insomuch as it was, all she needed to do was focus on staying alive.

"Ah… yeah that's how he got me, too," the rough voice sounded again.

"Where are we?" Christine asked, fighting to see with her good eye.

"Couldn't tell you if I wanted to, child," another voice said somewhere in front of her, a ways away. It was deeper, huskier, and older.

"How long have you been here?" Christine asked, her voice becoming smooth again.

"Depends on who you're askin' hon," said the first voice. "I've been here at least a year, if not more. I lost count months ago."

"Three years here," answered the second, her tone bitter.

" Lil' one's been here a all her short life. Her mother was Madaline before she gave birth the little rat. Now Madeline be Dead Madeline," commented the first voice as a soft light from a single lamp lit the room. Christine would have gasped, had she had the energy when greeted with the sight before her. The speaker was a young woman, perhaps in her early twenties, her skin smooth, but gaunt over her naked body. She, too supported many fresh scathes and bruises, old scars sprinkled across her bared chest, stomach and legs, her skin dark with dirt and smeared traces of blood.

Looking around her she found the older voice. The woman was perhaps in her thirties, with dirty brown hair, dull eyes and in very much the same condition as the first, her stomach baring a crude, deep scar that marred her navel and ran into her pubic hairs between frighteningly skinny legs.

Dragging her eyes away from her, she studied the other two bodies she had gathered an impression of earlier. One was a young girl, no older then ten, her greasy blond hair hanging about her young face in dirty locks hiding her eyes. She must have been the "lil' one" that the other woman had been talking of. Her starved body was naked as well, and her leg was bent in an odd angle. Christine grimaced, sure that it was broken. Her ribs ridged through her skin, her pelvic bone jutting out.

A shuffle of movement farther to her left drew her gaze to an atrocity that leaned against the wall. If the others were in bad shape this one was a corpse. A moan escaped the lips of the woman. She bled leaking trails from a stab wound deep in her belly, puss gathering around the puncture of the kin. A rope was biting deeply into her neck, chaffing the skin into a raw wound. Her arm hung limply and grossly to the side at such an extreme turn that she hadn't a doubt that it was broken, if not shattered. Her head, as the little girl's, was bowed in pain, unaware, most likely, of the world around her. She moaned again, lolling her head up and to the side now, causing Christine to turn away from the side, gagging violently. She felt rough hands gather around her waist and dragging her up to stumbling feet, still gagging, her stomach beginning to heave uncontrollably.

"Over here now," said the older voice. "That's right. Can't have you heavin' up in the only clean part of this place. Right here." Christine's nose picked up the strong scent of vomit and human waste, bringing her to the feeling that her stomach would be throw up with the emptying contents of her stomach. When she had nothing left to vomit, the woman was back, gathering her in her arms and supporting her away from the coner. Christine glanced at the creature that lay against the wall again momentarily.

Her face on one side was ripped and torn, but the other side of her face, the right side, was stripped of skin but for a few patches that moldered and rotted. The blood dripped down desguistingly beyond her bared cheekbone and descended her neck, pooling about full breasts that we mutilated with the traces of a knife. Christine's stomach swirled again, and she gagged, but managed to look away and recompose herself.

"You be needin' the corner again?" the woman asked, but she shook her head. "Not a pretty sight, is he? Naw…Naw that Andrew got to 'er. He liked to rip apart his women."

Christine balked.

"Rip apart?" she protested. "She's mutilated!"

"No need for such big words now, miss," the first woman that had spoke replied from the farthest corner of the … room. What was she in anyway? "The rest of us not be high people like you."

"What's your name child?" asked the older one, now seating herself against a wall again.

"Christine Daae."

"Well, miss Daae," said the oldest one. "I'm Martelli, but you can call me Marti- everyone does."

"Mary." That was the older woman. "The lil' one's Kassandra. The skrewed up one is Callendra."

Christine nodded, beginning to shiver. She wrapped her arms around herself gazing at the others in none but their skin. She at least had a night-shift; tore and bloody as it was, it was something on her back. Where was she? How soon would she face the same fate as the rest of these women? Beatings and rapings, from what she gathered. Her heart wrung as she thought of little Margareite, her mind murmuring that Kassandra was very much like her little friend. Perhaps she could bond with this child as well?


	25. Chapter 25

Raoul literally screamed his rage when he realized that his love was once again, gone right out from under his nose. He couldn't understand it! She'd been in bed with him in the night, yet when he awoke, she had disappeared completely. Had she been kidnapped again? What other explanation was there to assume when discovering Mystique Mastery had returned, rider less? Yelling for the stable boy to saddle up Majestic Brook, his bay gelding, Raoul ground his teeth. It was time to pay Sergeant Lamar another visit.

Lamar rapped loudly upon a worn, wooden door, disturbing traces of old blood staining the light wood. He stood stiffly, hood over head, waiting for an answer in the far west end of town. A sick man passed him, coughing with a gurgling effect, stumbling. Another passed, a woman this time, perhaps in her early forties, her prostitute's dress ragged and dirty. He averted his eyes from her, focusing on the door as it clicked and creaked open, an eyes appearing in the crack.

"Whatcha want?" a gruff voice asked harshly.

"I've come to bargain with Red," he answered simply, pulling out a tinkling bag of francs.

"An' who be you to be wantin' to bargain with Red?"

"One that will rip your throat out if you don't let me pass," Lamar snapped. "I've got a fair deal for Red and he'd be angered if you stopped such a deal." The eye at the door shifted slightly, then opened wider in to a red tinted room. Rickety stairs led to a shabby second story.

He pushed pass the greeter, striding up the stairs, shifting his weight uncomfortably as the stair creaked tiredly. Reaching the head of the stairs, he looked down the hall, glancing at the four closed doors. One had a faint light emitting from beneath the door. He strode to the door with determined strides, then opened it with a confident air. Red sat in the corner of the room, entwined with a woman, oblivious of Lamar's presence just yet.

"Do you never tire of such pleasantries?" he asked, starting when the "woman" raised her face to the light when freed from Red's grasp. She was not a woman; she was a child, a young teenager. No older then thirteen at the oldest. He bit the inside of his cheek, quelling the urge to punch the man senseless and take the girl away. The girl's eyes shone with discomfort, her pale neck sporting sharp red teeth marks. He shifted his eyes from the girl, forcing himself to block her from his mind. Red's face was annoyed, but greed glinted in his darkly ringed eyes, his matted blond hair pulled back poorly, his beard dusting his face and nearly hiding his mouth, but when he bared his teeth in a wicked smile, they're rotted texture was far to clear.

"Never, my dear Lamar," he answered, taking a cigar from the table beside him and biting down on it as he spoke. "What deal 'ave you here for me, eh? Perhaps, for once, a fresh child? Despite your business, you never bring in human pay. Its francs, always francs. Flesh is more valuable. I get continual use from flesh."

"Flesh is dealt with concerning another I deal with Red," Lamar answered, repressing the urge to shiver when using such an easy word for the girls that were dealt, sold, and bought. "Francs are my deal with you. Francs for information. Be glad you get as much." Lamar refused to sell girls as a way into this man's business, but instead offered francs. While Red was well aware of his position as Sergeant, Lamar had been slippery enough to convince the pimp of crookedness.

Red glared now, but said nothing, grasping the girl's arm harshly and pushing her away roughly to the end of the rickety bed. She gasped, as her head smacked the metal rails, but she did not allow tears to fall. Lamar knew as well as she tears promised punishment that would trade tears for screams of pain.

"What dirt do you want me to reveal to your cause, Lamar?"

"I've been having some troubles with my girls disappearing lately. Some one been stealin' 'em away and then dumping them, dead, along the sewers," Lamar began, putting a less civilized tone to his voice. "I know you know who it is. If there was ever anyone to know anythin', it's you." Red hummed uncertainly, eyeing the bag that contained the francs. "One thousand shining francs, red," Lamar answered his gaze. "The information is not even worth that, but the extra requires your utter silence." He bit his lip, cursing himself as he slipped back into his cultured tone by mistake.

"You drive a cold deal, Lamar," Red growled. "But I'll hold true to my word for one thousand francs." HE took a whiff of his cigar, then tossed it across the room to Lamar's feet. Frowning, the Sergeant crushed it out with his foot, then looked up again at Red, waiting for him to continue. "The Kingrea Group." His answer was simple, short, annoying Lamar with its briefness.

"What the hell is the Kingrea Group?" he snapped. Red sneered.

"Group of men," he answered. "All connected one way or another. They's been stealing stray women and any unattended. Rough group them." He grinned his terrible, sick grin. " Any that been givin' birth been thrown out with knife wounds deep in they're bellies. The runts that be commin' out of 'em serve in the bitches' places. Keeps business runnin' smoothly."

"Pedophiles as well then," Lamar growled, fighting desperately to keep his voice smooth. He had the connection he needed. Now he only needed one thing.

"Where are they?"

Red's eyes irised in upon the bag hangin form Lamar's belt. Leashing in his desperate temper, Lamar untied the bag and tossed it at Red angrily.

"There. You have your damned money," he bit out. "Now spit out the information you low life insect."

"Why so desperate for this tid-bit?" Red asked suspiciously.

"This group has a good amount of my women," he said, slightly distracted now by the girl that shifted in the corner of his sight. She was looking at him with plain ear in her dull blue-grey eyes, and he willed his eyes to reflect his pity for her, mentally begging her to see his compassion. She stared at him intently, but otherwise he received no reaction. He turned his gaze back to Red. "I want them back." Red continued to look uncertain, but nodded.

"On the verge of the high an' low parts of the city. There will be a cluster of houses all under the Kingrea name. They run their business inside those shit dumps." Red paused, slipping his hand into the bag and savoring the feeling of cold metal against his fingers. He looked up at Lamar sharply. "But you didn't 'ear none of this from me."

"Hear what, exactly, Red?" Lamar answered. He turned his gaze to the girl again. "How much is she worth?" Red glanced at the girl carelessly, shrugging.

"Four 'undred francs," he answered off-handedly. Lamar balked. He simply wasn't carrying that many extra francs.

"The runt of flesh ain't worth that much," he argued.

"She's' young, Lamar," Red insisted. "She's be growin' in well to her lanky body. She'd be quite the money bait soon." Lamar shook his head.

"Two hundred, Red," he said. "No more. She's too banged up for that price." Red's jaw clenched, and Lamar could see his teeth grinding as he thought through the deal.

"Fine," he finally snapped. "Take the wench. Wasn't much use anyway. Now toss the cursed coins." Lamar hid the triumphant glint in his sharp grey eyes and revealed another hidden bag of Francs. He riffled around in the bag and withdrew his hand, clenched, then slipped it into his pocket. Best not let Red know that two hundred was all he carried.

"Come, then, girl," he said sharply, motioning to the girl. She shook violently, then stood, walking to him hesitantly. He knew the questions behind her eyes. What was he going to do with her? Would he use her or sell her? "Come on then," he said, a little more urgently, but masked his desperation to escape the rotting house and Red. He grasped her arm quickly, deceptively gently, however. "Farewell then. Red. Nice dealing with you."

Red grunted, lighting another cigar.


	26. Chapter 26

Raoul cursed violently as he mounted his bay gelding once more, biting down on his urge to run the horse at full gallop somewhere, anywhere, away from all this trouble. But he didn't. He could not abandon Christine. Nudging the fiery mount into a brisk walk, he buried himself deep in thought.

There were only a certain amount of things that could have happened to Christine. And thousands of people that could do them. It was a nauseating predicament when he thought about trying to sift through the number of people that could have done this. Only one man stood out in his thoughts prominently, away from the rest of the world. But he was dead. _Perhaps not,_ a voice whispered sickeningly in the back of his mind. _Christine wouldn't tell me where she had been…surly she would hide none but the Phantom of the Opera from me. But why hide it, if it had been the Phantom?_ Raoul frowned sharply as he thought. _If he could wrap her in a spell once, he could do it once again._ Raoul shook his head to himself. _No. He's dead. Surly._ But doubt knawed at insides, picking at him resolve.

His horse shied slightly when a csarragie hurried by at an alarming speed, and his thoughts were forced to calming the beast. After soothing the gelding to a stand still, Raoul looked up, surprised when he found himself before the Opera Populair. His muscles tensed and his breath hitched, Majestic Brook tossing his head as he felt his rider's tention. Raoul reigned him in sharply to a unmoving stance, grinding his teeth painfully.

If it was indeed the Phantom of the Opera that had stolen Christine away, as highly unlikely as it was, then, begrudged as he may be to do it, he should look into it.

Erik's soul swept to the music that his organ emitted as he teased the keys with his fingers, they're smooth surface lovely pearls beneath them. This was a new compostion, one he had written in Margareite's name. The music played out the love and harmony that the two held comfortably, flashes of memory skittering through his mind as he played out the piece.

Margareite sat composing her own music, a melody to parallel with Erik's to be played in harmoby with his own, to bring out more then just his side of the close relationship they held. She smiled as memories of her own played out in her thoughts, and wrote in her smile with three happy notes. Sighing, she put down her quill. Her hand ached from hours of writing long before erik had begun to play his organ, and put down the feather.

"I'm going to stretch my legs,Erik, " she said simply, walking twords the gondola. Erik nodded silently as she went. He had taught her how to use the gonaola properly some time ago, and she did enjoy walking about the cellars from time to time. He went on playing.

Raoul scurried down to the cellars without a word t befumbled employees wondering where they're absent patron now so suddenly rushed through the opera house. Though he had only been down to the cellars the night of the fire, he remembered the way well. His feet echoed against the stone stairs and floor with sharp scuffling noises. It was not until he came to the head of the stairs that held the trap door did he balk. Surly there was some other way then to nearly drown…but he knew no other way. Hoping and praying that he could get the old wheel to turn the grate once again, that it had not rusted in the six months since that night, he decended the wide stone steps.

His heart beat frantically as he continued down the stairs. He did not remember the exact step that had fall out from under him, but surley he had passed it by-

Hisstomach flew up to his throat as he fell into ice-cold enveloping water. It bit into his skin, the taste of a mouthful that he made it's way into his mouth caused him to retch beneath the water, threatening to allow in more of the desguisting liquid. Pushing all this from his thoats, he searched for the wheel. There, a vauge form of a round opbject extended from the shadows. He stroked towards it, placing his fingers over the moss-covered metal and tugged at it violently. His breath was becoming harder to hold now, his lungs stinging slightly. Nothing but moss that broke of in his hand reacted to his pul. Repostioning his hands, he bore down with all the strength he could, wishing that he could use his body weight that the surrounding water now render useless. The wheel creaked and turned a notch but otherwise barley moved. The burning sensation in his lungs turned to a constant tinglng that demanded fresh air. Re-postioning his hands once again, Raoul willed all of his strength to his arms, valiantly fighting to keep his hands from slipping and he fought to turn the wheel. His lungs screamed for air now, threatening to burst with need-

The wheel broke past whatever barrier had stopped it from turning and turned fairly easily now with a deafening squeak, even under the surface of the bacterial water. Turning the metal wheel a bit farther, for a good measure of reassurance, he pushed off the wall and swam desperately to he serface,breaking it like a new-born fresh from the womb, breathing heavily. The grate above him that rose with agonizing slowness, dripping water on him begrudgingly at having lost its prey, finally reached a high enough level that Raoul managed to slip through underneath and to dry surface. He relaxed for a moment, allowing himself time to gasp for air and fill his tired lungs. All was silent around him but the creaking of the grate and the water that dropped from the metal and into the trap below. Closing his eyes, Raoul now focused on slowing his quickened heart, but in vain, for the grate startled him when it hit the closed trap door-step with a crack, and with a deafening squeal, released itself back into the water at a sickening speed, spattering Raoul with water as it hit the pool below. So that was how it worked.

"Who are you?" a small voice startled Raoul even farther, and he twisted clumsily to find a small girl, no older then nine, scarred some across the face and a pearl necklace of smooth skin glistening in the reflected torchlight, staring at him incredulously. Those eyes. A perfect Oak brown, deep and rich in color and soul. Eyes so very like Christine's, and yet held a slightly darker tint to Christine's chocolate ones. And they were wider, more knowing, as though she could look into your eyes and stare straight into your soul. "Who are you?" she asked again. Patience. Deadly patience; not hurried or worried in the slightest. But there was distrust there. Her eyes spoke plainly of suspecting him of horrendous crimes. What crimes she thought he might have comitted Raoul hadn't a clue, but her eyes made the accusation all the same. He cleared his throat before speaking uncomfortably. Who on earth was this child? Where had she come from?

"I…who are you?" he asked, turning her own question against her. The girl's eyes narrowed sharply and cold anger began to sparkle in them. He was taken aback slightly not only at the sharp spears that she held in her gaze, but also at the deadly hate that rang at him so quickly. Was it such an insult to ask who she was?

"Who I am is of no concern to you or yours," she answered sharply. _Me or mine? Who is mine? Others like me… but who?_ "I requested your name first. It is only polite to answer properly." Raoul frowned. What child could possibly speak with such a confident grip upon language at her tender age?

"I am Raoul DeChaney," he answer, deciding that perhaps he should simply follow by her rules; she had the upper-hand. He offered his hand hesitantly. The girl jumped sharply, backing away in a scuttling motion, glaring at his hand untrustingly, angrily. He brought his hand back, frowning deeply, baffled by her reaction to his movement. She stared at him now from a good length away, warily keeping those amazing eyes focusing coldly upon him, they're color cooling to a slightly lighter shade, almost Christine's color, reflecting a cold hatred that was rimmed with confustion.

So this was Raoul DeChaney. Christine's lover and fiancé, and Erik's archrival. EHe was a confusing man in her book. He was handsome enough, as Christine had described him, his strawberry-blond hair, slightly darkened for it's soaked aspect, was tied back, one wet lock hanging in his face; his shirt clinging to a narrow, well formed torso, his skin's light color shining through the thin material, his chest dusted slightly with hair showing as his shirt stuck to him in weird angles. Her eyes focused upon the spot for a moment in distaste. She did not enjoy the sight of male skin. She allowed for Erik's shirtless sleep, not for any enjoyment in the slightest, but for the want for him to feel comfortable.

As Christine described him, he was a kind, caring male, sensitive and loving. Never had laid an uncaring hand for her. He had risked his life for her. But he was also the man that had stolen away Erik's first chance at happiness. He had torn Erik's heart apart when he escaped with Christine. He was also male. Any male that was not Erik, was untrustworthy in her mind. Unfair it may have been, but it would take more then just Erik to make her more comfortable around other men. Kind. Erik's eternal hate embodied. Male. Two slashed to his name so far as she was concerned.

"What do you want here, Raoul DeChangey?" she asked venomously. "You are not welcome here." Raoul bit his toung at retorting that no child could stop him if he wanted past her. What did she mean, that he was not welcome here? Unless….

"The Phantom is down here, isn't he?" he blurted out, then wished he had not been so plain when her eyes flamed with hate and protective heat, her body stiffening.

"What do you want with him, male?" she asked, ice coating her voice. Male? He was not sure why she had addressed him so, but payed it no mind.

"I need to know if he has Christine," Raoul answer slowly. His own voice was becoming hateful, but not for the girl. He was utterly confused at the child's immediate hate of him, and her protected venom that was spitting from her for Erik.

"No," she answered, her face a mask of deadly protection. "Christine left long ago. She is no longer with us. Erik sent her away." Raoul's eyes widened.

"So she was with that beast when she was missing three months ago?" Raoul asked savagely. The girl startled at the anger in his voice and backed up another step, but her hate still rang true.

"She didn't tell you," she observed, her voice dark as midnight, now threatening an insane tone in reaction of Raoul's insult to Erik. "And just as well. You males are simple creatures of rape and hate aren't you? Well you won't touch Erik. You will leave. Now."

Raoul glared at the child. A little thing such as herself ordering him to go? When that monster surly had Christine? The girl was lying for the creature. He had Christine, he knew it.

"You lie you little viper," he said bitterly. "He has Christine and I will save her if it's the last thing I do." He stood, using his height against her own for intimidation. He didn't want to hurt this girl, just frighten her into letting him alone. The scars across her face contorted momentarily as her face expelled pure fear when he stood. His heart wrung. That Thing must have laid those murdering hands upon her. He willed his voice strong again. He hated to stir such fear in the child, but he needed past without disturbance. "Now let me past."

Margareite's heart raced when he stood, leaping in her chest violently. His eyes were savagely protective, determined. She could not let him pass and reach Erik, not with the anger at him that eminated strongly, focused upon Erik. But what would he do to her if she tried to stop him? Biting her lip, Margareite said with a shaking voice,

"I will go get Erik. Please stay here and I will retrieve him. This is not my battle."

With that, she scurried off.

"Erik!"

Erik started sharply at the desperate tone of Margareite's approaching voice and she slid the gondola through the water. He put down his wine glass htta he had been savoring as he studied his sheet of music, changing notes here and there. He stood when he saw the fearing mask that she wore.

"What is it, Margareite?" he asked, approaching the shore-line of the lake.

"Raoul DeChangey," she said, her voice sparking an cold fire in his gut. "He's here. He thinks you still have Christine. I tried to make him leave but.." her voice failed due to her short breath. Erik shook his head.

"No," he said. "It is fine. You did the best thing." He had to deal with this himself. Something was desperately wrong if Raoul thought he still had Christine. Last he knew of, Christine had returned to her fiancé. A cold voice whispered of his dream a week ago, but he showed it to the back of his mind.


	27. Chapter 27

Erik pushed the gondola through the water swiftly, to his rigged watery trap. Raoul DeChangey come back to haunt him. Did the boy think he could best Erik now as he could not before? If he thought that Erik still had Christine… where was she?

Was she in danger? His heart wrung desperately at this thought. He had just nursed her back to health and here she had gone missing again! Again the small voice murmured of hid dream. Had it been in fact, a dream? Or a vision?

Erik was not one to believe in the supernatural. Others believed he himself to be of the supernatural, but Erik knew better. It was simply the method of the trick of the mind, an illusion of the eye. But dreams that were actually true, perhaps happening? If it was…no… oh gods, no…

The Gondola banked roughly, breaking him from his torturing thoughts. Margareite rushed out of the little boat ahead of him, turning the corner that led to where Raoul awaited.

"Did you bring the monster?" Raoul's voice echoed against the stone chasms.

"You should beware your words, male," Margareite's voice answered. Erik started slightly. He had not realized, nor considered the hatred that would lead to such addressing still burned within her. He had simply been content with their happy world. He sighed, supposing that nothing would ever be purely simple. He should have known that.

"See here you little rat," Raoul's voice spat. "I am here to retrieve my fiancé and if you don't bring me to her-"Erik rounded the corner, drawing himself to his full, daunting height, considerably taller then Raoul.

"You will watch your tongue when you speak to Margareite, viscount," he said, his voice dark. "Speak to me as you will, but you will show her respect." His hand twitched uncomfortably, begging to grasp his Punjab Lasso, but he worked to stay the urge. Raoul turned to look at Erik with death written in his dark blue eyes, forgetting Margareite for the moment.

"Where is Christine?" he demanded, his voice dangerous. "Tell me where she is or Gods help me…" Erik stayed his ground as Christine's fiancé stepped forward threateningly.

"OR you'll what, Viscount?" Erik growled back. "Kill me? If anyone has the right to kill another, I assure you it is I. And it is I that has more of a will to do it then yourself."

"Then why don't you, you lying bastard?" Raoul's angry voice bounced off the walls loudly, causing Margareite to jump. Erik stared at Raoul with restrained rage, his teeth grinding, his voice silent.

If neither knew Christine's whereabouts, then killing Raoul was the last thing that needed to be done. He might know something that he was not aware would be helpful to find Christine.

"Answer me, you deformed lump of flesh!" Raoul shouted, unsheathing a little dagger he kept in his waist band, causing Margareite shouting Erik's name. Instinct had Erik moving swiftly, grasping Raoul's wrist and bringing to behind his back in a painful angle.

"I lived on the streets once and was forced to defend myself, Viscount," he snarled. "I know how to protect myself." The viscount hissed through his teeth, cursing at the Phantom man hatefully.

"Get you hands off me, creature," he demanded, snapping his head back in hopes of catching Erik's nose, but the Phantom evaded his movement and threw him away from himself. The viscount landed at Margareite's feet, who scuttled backwards a few steps but gazed down at him coldly.

"You are the monster, DeChangey," she said bitterly. "Christine was wrong to love you."

Her words sent Raoul into an angry movement hat he would later wonder how he could have been so rough with the child; but love makes one do things they would normally never even think of.

Snatching Margareite's ankle before she could jump back, he brought her smashing to the ground, her head smacking the stone floor with a loud slap. She cried out as he grasped her thick brown hair in his fist and stood, bring her up with him and holding his dagger to her scarred throat. Erik cried out for her as Raoul brought her into his mercy but did not move when he pressed the blade slightly harder into her young skin. The girl whimpered, tears leaking from her eyes, hate burning fiercely in they're shiny surface.

"Bring me Christine!" Raoul screamed, hate for Erik flaring just as brightly as Erik's.

"Let her go!" Erik challenged back, his voice raising to it's magnificent volume.

"Where's Christine?" Raoul demanded, pricking his dagger's edge into Margareite's throat. Erik's eyes rose up in fury as she whimpered again.

"I don't have her, damn you!" Erik insisted. "I sent her away, back to you! If she did not return to you, do not blame me! Now let her go!"

"Oh, but she did," Raoul said, his voice dangerously quiet now. "But she disappeared again. Couldn't stand to be without her, could you, Creature? Had to steal her away from me again!"

"Curse you, DeChangey, I tell you I do not have her!"

"Then show me!" Raoul spit out. "Prove to me that she is not hidden away in your little cave!"

"Fine!" Erik snarled. "Fine I will prove it to you, but let Margareite go!"

"I will let her go when you prove it," Raoul said, biting the blade into Margareite's skin so that a little droplet of blood formed. She let out a small cry but otherwise kept quiet.

"I will prove it if you let her go."

Raoul dipped the blade deeper into Margareite's already wounded neck.

"If I have Christine, I could go down and kill her now, before you could reach her," Erik said his voice dangerous. "Let her go and I will show you I do not hold your fiancé hostage."

Raoul's eyes shifted as he thought Erik's bargain through; Erik watched as he fought to come to a decision, his heart racing with worry for Margareite. Finally Raoul nodded stiffly and took the blade form Margaereit's throat, pushing her roughly to Erik. The girl stumbled, but Erik moved quickly to catch her. She hugged his neck tightly, sniffling softly into his shoulder for a moment before composing herself again. Erik held her tightly securely.

"I have you," Erik murmured. "It's ok. I won't let him touch you again." Margaeite nodded and stood upright, clinging to Erik's side as he rose to a stand.

"Hurry up, Phantom!" Raoul demanded, untouched by the short scene.

Normally, Raoul would have found the scene utterly touching, but his love for Christine was driving him to be someone he was not. Or someone else that he never knew existed within him.

"Follow me, then, Viscount," the Creature said stiffly. "Margareite, you walk before me." The girl immediately moved in front of the monster, his hand on her shoulder.

The Creature led him to the gondola, allowing Margaeite's boarding first, pausing before allowing Roaul in. Raoul fought the urge to scream at the man again to simply tell him where Christine was. He was not sure that the phantom man spoke the truth, perhaps he was leading Raoul into a trap to kill him, or perhaps he didn't have Christine. But otherwise, why not kill him?

"Stay on the opposite end of the Gondola from Margareite," the Creature instructed. "Do not move to be near her, do not speak to her. Get in." Raoul growled at these orders, but stepped in, settling in to a corner of the little boat. The Creature boarded and began to push the gondola through the water slowly, painfully slowly.

Erik repressed the need to grunt as he pushed more weight through the water then he was used to. Biting down on his tong, he guided the heavy load through the water-ways.

Where was Christine? What was he doing? Leading DeChangey down to his Lair? The man was showing himself to have quite to monster within himself as well. Erik's mouth twitched in a sneer. Raoul was proving to himself that love made a person do unspeakable things. He nearly growled again though as he thought about the blade that he had pressed to Margareite's little throat. He glanced at the girl, who huddled as near to his legs as possible. She was shaken, but except for the nick that Raoul had caused and perhaps a headache, she was unhurt.

Margareite touched a large lump on her head that was forming and glared at Raoul, loathing his very existence. He was a male through and through. Violent and hateful. She felt at the sting on her throat, drawing her fingers away to find smeared blood upon them. Suddenly feeling vulnerable, she inched closer to Erik. He glanced down at her, but quickly moved his eyes back to Raoul and the waterways. What on earth made Raoul think that Christine was still here? Her eyes widened as she remember that night a week ago when Erik had spoken of a dream where Christine had been captured and beaten. She fought to impulse to tug on Erik's pants and tell him, sure that he had already thought of said venue.

Christine smacked down again on the dirt floor for the fifth time that week, cold, sore between the legs, aching in the muscles and stinging in the skin. Within the week that she had been cooped within this shack, she had been called five moons to service men, sometimes more then once a night. Her body had become as scraped up and beaten as the others, her night0-shift having been ripped to useless pieces was discarded long ago, her naked body a sight for all to see. Her first night had been the lesser of the evils.

The man that had first captured her threw the door open, snatching her up with rough hands and pressing blade to her neck again to ensure her cooperation. He had blindfolded her, and led her out of the stinking shack and into the biting night air. She had tricked and fell on unseen objects upon the ground numerous times, skinning her knees raw. She had been pressed to a stop, then heard a door creak open, and she found herself thrown into a fire-warmed room, the door slammed behind her. She had immediately wrenched the blindfold from her eyes now that her hands were unencumbered, to see a man sitting into a wooden chair across the room. His eye traced down her body without modesty, lust glinting in his cold grey eyes. He stood, approached her naked, shaking body, causing her already quickly beating heart to pound painfully in her chest. She turned desperately, trying to open the door and found it locked as the man laid his calloused hands upon her tender skin, snatching her around, pulling her head back with a fistful of hair and kissing her roughly, forcing his tong into her mouth. De, Christine bit down upon the invading object, causing the man to pull back sharply a strike her across the face with a ringed hand. The metal split her skin as it collided with her cheek; she felt the blood trickle around the sides of her jaw and trickled down her neck, descending to the crevice between her breasts.

Her rapist threw her to the wood flood, bearing down upon her, licking the blood pooling on her chest, and proceeding to force kisses upon her. She fought out of instinct, only to bring more pain upon herself. After a time, when she lay nearly unconscious with pain, he shed his pants and speared into her. She cried out desperately, clawing at his face in renewed pain, but she found her hands held together at the wrist and over her head, bearing her vulnerably to his whim.

She curled into a ball upon the dirty floor, exhausted utterly. Silent, sure hands gathered her up and helped her to stand, bring her to rest against the wall. She whimpered as her newly slit open back touched the splintering wood, the man having pushed her against a wooden table edge.

"There now, darling," Marti's voice said as gently as its rough quality could get. "Got ya good, didn' he?" Christine started to nod, but found her head as heavy as led, and didn't try to move it farther.

"How is Callendra?" Christine whispered, her voice barley audible. None had been able to sit and watch the woman suffer. She had not been called out, her body to diseased to use, and they were supplied with only barley enough water to drink and stale bread. There was nothing to clean her wounds with, so that had all sat, and avoided the sight of her, though all desperately wanted to help.

"She's dead," Matri said sadly. "Took her body away while you were out." Christine felt a lump rise in her throat; had she the energy, she would have cried, but she did not.

"And Kassandra?" Black oblivion was on the edge of her conscience, threatening to overwhelm her.

"She's be doin' ok," Marti answered, pulling Christine's matted hair back gently away from her face. "Her leg be hurtin' her a bit, but otherwise she's ok. Let's just 'ope she ok when she gets back. They took her out, too while you were gone. Let us pray that she dosn't get Andrew." Christine nodded, letting her head loll back to the wall with a dull thud.

"Mary was taken out?" she asked, her voice cracking even in its whispering state.

"Yeah," Marti answered." She said, "Here, eat this. They brought in the rat food while you while out as well." She pressed dry bread to Christine's lips, forcing it gently into her mouth. Gathering her strength, Christine forced herself to chew, then swallow the painfully dry food. The door to the shack swung open again, the silhouette of the brutal man that had kidnapped Christine stood in the door.

Marti gave a little whimper as he strode forward, blind folding her and pressing the knife to her throat. Christine felt the dim urge to try to help her, but knew that she couldn't if she tried. The door slammed shut, and Christine allowed herself to slip into black oblivion.


	28. Chapter 28

"You see!" Erik said sharply, loathing for Raoul sparkling in his eyes. "I do not hide Christine in my bed not behind my curtains!" Margareite stiffened at the tone of his voice. She knew it was not directed at her, but a raised male voice still instilled fear within her. She hugged close to him, silently pealing that he lower his voice. Erik looked down at her and ran his hand over her thick down of brown hair. I'm sorry, she read in his eyes. He looked back to Raoul, who had turned sharply to face him, anger contorting his handsome features.

"Your bed?" he spat. "Did you force her to join you in bed as well as kidnap her, you filthy, mangy-" Erik's face had become one of complete disbelief, but Margareite's had taken the mask of expression she had worn the day she had bitten out at Christine. Releasing Erik's side from her grasp, she stepped forward with and angry air. Erik made to catch her arm, but she shook him off and strode forward. Raoul had paid her no mind, his eyes fixed murderously upon Erik, who stood torn between arguing for what little honor he held and forcing Margareite back.

Margareite circled out of Raoul's vision, using his distracted hate to her advantage. Erik's eyes flitting back and forth between Raoul and Margareite, unsure of what to do. What was she doing? She glanced at him momentarily and placed a finger to her lips. Her eyes hardened and she continued to circle in behind Raoul.

Following her lead, Erik fixed his gaze back upon Raoul, meeting his eyes with sparking hate.

"I may be inhuman in you eyes, Viscount," he said lowly. "But I do not force women into my bed."

"And how do I know that?" Raoul shot back at him. "Surely your lust eventually played itself out. What did you do to her?" Raoul's voice had risen into an angry crescendo.

"I did nothing," Erik spat, enphising the last word.

"What did you do to her?" Raoul shouted, raising his dagger again. Erik saw a flash of movement, then was caught by surprise when Raoul cried out in a sound only a male in genital pain could make. Erik's mouth spread into a sneer that he did not restrict in the slightest. Erik had lost sight of Margareite in his anger but now looked at her as she had shot between Raoul's spread-stanced legs and grasped his testicles through the material of his pants.

Margareite squeezed harshly, biting her nails into the tender skin as the man cried out, dropping his knife in pain. She smiled ruthfully, enjoying the feel of HER fingers finally causing the pain. After a moment, Raoul recovered well enough to raise a hand to strike her, but she twisted her fistful of male organ viciously, pulling with a sharp tug to add a good measure of agony. Raoul cried out again, this time louder, blind with pain once again. Margareite's smile disappeared into a snarling face.

"Get you pet off of me, Creature!" Raoul screeched his voice barley audible for his pain.

"I am not his, nor any other mans' pet," Margareite spat. "He never has, nor would he force Christine into his bed. He is not violent like most of your kind." Her voice began to growl as she spoke as she squeezed tighter upon her vice. "This is only a fraction of the pain that your kind has caused me, male," she hissed, watching with ultimate satisfaction as the man in her mercy breathed through clenched teeth until he heard her words, and his eyes fell upon her sharply.

Raoul's eyes snapped open and he looked down at the girl that was ravaging his family jewels with agony. Now it made sense. Addressing him as a male; "you and yours"… she had been badly hurt by men…. He bit down on his thoughts before he could allow the idea that Erik might be innocent of those scars that marred her young skin. The cold revenge that sparkled maliciously in her eyes caused him to still.

"If men hurt you, it was not my fault," he said with a hoarse voice. "Please release me, mademoiselle." Margareite's snarling face spit at him with hate, her eyes telling him she would rather continue to cause him discomfort.

"Oh, as you let me go when you held me at knife point?" she bit out angrily.

Erik sighed, wishing he could enjoy the scene longer, but knew that Christine was the main priority right now.

"Margareite," he said, his voice highly amused. Raoul snatched a look at him of pure loathing and hate, his pride highly wounded. "Free the Viscount from your marvelous grip." Margareite looked at him with slitted eyes glittering with the want to cause more pain to this man. He shook his head in her direction. With obvious disappointment, the girl released Christine's fiancé. She skittered away before Raoul could reach out to grab her, but he made no move to hurt her again as she snatched up his discarded knife and hurried to Erik's side. Erik doubted that he would after this little scene. His sneer settled into a straight face as he turned back to the subject of Christine.

"As you see," he said to Raoul, whose legs threatened to buckle, "I do not hide Christine here. If she is not with you, then what could have happened to her?" Raoul glared at him, hands clenched at his side, his mouth tightly shut. Erik growled lowly in his frustration. How he hated allowing this man to live when he had him so easily within his death grip! But without him, he doubted that he would find Christine.

"Come now, Viscount," he said, fighting to keep his voice even. "I am as loath to companionship between us as yourself but to find Christine we must talk like civilized-"

"Civilized men?" Raoul interrupted, his fist clenching so strongly his knuckles whitened with the strain. "How am I expected to talk like a civilized man hen nothing more but a-"

Erik looked at Margareite pointedly, then back to Raoul. He had long ago learned to discard insults form this particular man, but he needed some way to control him.

"Would you like to replay your most recent embarrassment, Viscount?" he asked coldly. Raoul's eyes became panicked as they flitted to Margareite who stood more then ready to take her wrath out upon him again.

"Fine!" Raoul said quickly. "Fine! What do you want to talk about, Creature?" Erik's jaw twitched in annoyance, but continued without throwing and insult foremost.

"What could have happened to Christine?" Erik asked, cooling his voice to a careless tone, surprised that he found it so easy to sound so casual about the subject of his loved one having gone missing.

"She must have been kidnapped," Raoul answered shortly. "Even if not by you and your lowly self." He stared blandly at the side of the face that Erik had replaced his mask upon before setting out to face his archrival. Erik breathed deeply before continuing.

"Why MUST she have?"

"Her horse returned rider less." Simple. Angry. And worried.

"Could she not have fallen off?" raoul shook his head, his hair half dried now, his shirt dried in wrinkles.

"She's too accomplished a rider, and her horse far too calm tempered," Raoul answered.

"That besides, she was riding in the high end of town. The aristocracy sleeps at night; we do not go out. I cannot see her riding much farther then a block end of the verge of the high and low ends of the town." His voice had become tiered now, his worry for Christine reigning even brighter then his hatred for Erik. Erik took comfort in not having to fend off sneering comments for the moment. He nodded.

Margareite listened to the conversation and blanched widely, her mouth becoming as dry as a desert. The high and low ends o town… the Kingreas were there. Her old family. The past she had hoped to bury. Now it seemed that it was bound to haunt her no matter where she ran. And now the evil of the Kingreas had latched its claws into Christine.

Margareite swallowed numerous times, attempting to find her voice. She started more then once, but her words would not come out as more then a whisper. Did the Kingrea rules of utter silence follow her everywhere? Steeling herself, Margareite gathered her breath, forcing herself to scream, hoping it her words would come out at least audible to the ear.

"The Kingrea Group!" her ears told her that her voice had risen only to a normal speaking level. Upset by her body's traitorous refusal to speak at her will, she bit her tong. Erik had spun around to face her.

"What?" he asked sharply, making her jump. He strode over to her quickly, kneeling down and meeting her eye level.

Her Oak eyes rang mahogany dark now, pain and fear shining as fresh within them as the first night that he had first gathered her up.

"What do you say? What do you mean?" he asked. "Who is the Kingrea Group?"

The girl opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She swallowed again, and attempted to speak again, but to no avail. He shook his head. There was only one explanation for this reaction in Margareite.

"Hush," he said. "Just nod or shake your head. It's the men that had you, isn't it?" Nod. Erik hung his head, dread spearing through his sharply. What horrors was Christine facing now? "You're sure?" he asked. Nod.

"What is she talking about?" Raoul's voice inturupted. Erik hung his head again, taking a breath, then stood slowly, squeezing Margareite to him with an arm.

"I know where she is," he said. "Or…the area, at the very least. We must get Christine out of the predicament she is in. God knows what she's already forced to endure." Raoul shook his head.

"What do you speak of?" he asked, utterly confused. "Who has Christine? What are they doing to her? How do you know what they are doing to her?" Erik stared into his eyes, slicing into them, capturing Raoul's full attention, then looked at Margareite.

"She answers all your questions," he said, gently pulling Margareite's thick mop of brown locks atop her head. Raoul blanched at the scars that had hidden beneath the hair, her shoulders bore tick, deep, wide scars in zigzag formations. Erik raised her neck with the touch of his fingers to her chin to remind Raoul of the choking scar.

"Oh gods," he whispered. "I have to get her out of there." He forced his sight from the quietly submitting Margareite to look Erik in the eye with begging eyes, "Please…please I know we have or heavy differences-"that was put lightly, he thought bitterly. "– but I can't find her without you. Please help me find her." Erik's eyes stared at him coldly.


	29. Chapter 29

"Did you honestly think I would discard Christine life because of my hate for your pitiful self?" Erik snapped. "No. But know that if you ever-"he spit the last word- "barge in here and threaten Margareite again, or accuse my of such a horrendous crime, I will not hesitate to kill you. As it is I stay my hand for Christine's sake. But Christine cannot save you if you wreak havoc upon my life again." Raoul nodded humbly, but stiffly, as if it cost him great effort, then welcomed himself to the large velvet chair that had often held Margareite and Erik. Erik's jaw twitched in annoyance, but said nothing.

"And know that if you ever take Christine out from beneath me again, I will thrash your deformed-"Raoul began, but Margareite took a menacing step forward, growling, Raoul's knife securely in hand, but at her side. Erik did not worry, sure that she would not use the weapon. She enjoyed causing genital pain far too much to use the blade. He was also sure that she was not so violent a person as to use it unless in danger herself. Raoul looked at her, bit down upon his insults and continued- "body from here to kingdom come."

"I would not have stolen her out from beneath you if I had thought your young years could care for her." Erik held up a leather-clad hand to silence Raoul's outraged protest. "I did not know and love drove me back to the state of mind that I was in during all that happened six months…momentarily." Raoul's face turned to a snarl again, his tangled, drying hair causing him to look slightly ferocious. Margareite slunk back farther behind Erik, but the Phantom man held his ground without fear. He could best this young fop easily and he knew it.

"And far longer before that!" the Viscount snapped. "Surely that madness did not disappear with the fire?" Erik locked eyes with him, cold odium slicing out of his crystalline eyes and into Raoul's darker blue-grey orbs. Both held the want- near need- to kill the other, but both held their anger reined loosely, neither ready to submit to the other.

"It hides far in the back of my mind Viscount, and your tone is pushing its existence back into the foremost of my mind. Do not tempt me to allow the scale to tip," Erik said vituperatively. "I can find Christine well enough without your help. A moment ago, you asked me to help Christine despite our differences. I assure you that I will- with or without you. Preferably without," the word was bitter, grudging, "But I fear Christine may well never forgive me for your death." Raoul took a deep breath visibly whipping down upon whatever retort had flamed within his mind. He closed his eyes for a moment; when he opened them again they held a tired, overly-worried man's soul that wanted nothing more then his love back and to live in peace. Erik wondered fleetingly if Erik wished no more then the same; the difference lay in plain view for Erik: he would not live happily with Christine.

Lamar accommodated the girl in his personal chambers, having traded all of his week's pay for her life, thus leaving him with no money for her own apartment, hotel room, or even new clothes. He had lent her his calf-length coat which had dragged slightly behind her feet on her, to hide her nakedness, however. She was silent the entire time, as he had been. He had learned long again not to speak aloud his real plans or reasons on the streets, even when he thought himself well away from ill-meaning ears. One experience too many had taught him that until he was completely alone, he was not safe to speak, and even then sometimes it was not. Once in his room however, he nodded to his bed and locked his door, turning to face her to find the girl curled in a terrified ball at the head of his bed. He sighed, knowing that she expecting him to force himself upon her.

He strode to the closet and pulled out a shirt that he rarely wore (it was unflattering upon him) and a pair of pants and laid them at the end of the bed, gesturing for her to take them. She stared at the articles of clothing warily, unsure of his point. Her eyes traced from the cloths to him, stopping momentarily at his crotch, then moving onwards. She stared at him wonderingly, curious, but skittish; she reminded him of a fawn looking upon something new for the first time.

Charlotte slid her eyes along the man's legs to his crotch and stopped, peering for some sort of sign of an arousal. Surly he had one by now if he had planned to use her? But despite the searching look she allowed her experienced eyes; she saw nothing hard pushing at the material of his pants. Was he perhaps too small for the erection to be obvious? She nearly giggled in ruthless amusement at this thought. She had come to amuse herself with cruel person jokes about the men's bodies. No, she decided as her eyes trailed up his body and meet his gaze uncertainly, he was far too large a man to be that out of proportion. He frowned slightly at her blatant stare of the general area of his manhood, but said nothing, watching her. She stared back at him, unsure of what he really wanted.

Why give her fresh clothes? The brown, long coat she could understand. He had led her to the higher parts of town where her nude body would have been frowned upon, but now? Why now? What was the point when surly he would strip them off with the rough hands that others had? Neither the Kingrea Group, nor Red, once she was within his private, personal ownership, had allowed her clothing .It was pointless, the demeaned. Nothing could hide the hidous skeptical that was her scarred and marred body. Her only jewelry was the pearly bracelet about her slender wrists, the left of which had been broken and healed at an odd angle, but she found, was still usable. She stared at the clothes, then lifted her eyes to the man again, asking a silent question, terrified of the consequences of speech.

"The clothes, mademoiselle," the man said, his voice, which had been flint-sharp in Red's presence had softened to a warmer tenor. "You are welcome to put them on."

He frowned when she stared at him simply, perceptibly fearful of making the wrong movement.

"Mademoiselle, I do not seek to harm you," he said gently. "I and the Sergeant of the police, but I am not twisted as I led Red to believe. I will accommodate you elsewhere when I can find someone to take you in and treat you properly." The girl gazed at him with utter confusion in her eyes. He sighed again, lightly; perhaps engaging her in conversation would ease her fear. "Do you not speak, Mademoiselle?" No answer. Her big eyes bored into him, fear shining through, hate seething unused behind an abused body. The large orbs were almost mahogany colored, but not quite. They were curious, but skittish, reminding him of a fawn encountering something for the first time, ready to escape if the new object turned out to be threatening. But there was something else there; a secret hid behind those large eyes that told him she had a personal thought that amused itself in the privacy of her mind. "I will not punish you for speaking. Perhaps you could tell me your name? Surly even one in your position has a name?"

"One of my positions?" she bit out, cursing herself as soon as the words left her mouth. Her sharp witted tong had always been the cause of unsexual beatings, her sharp, crude words angering rather then arousing the men. She was a double-edged sword the men had said. 'beautiful as a newly sharpened blade, her tong just as sharp.' Her body tensed, waiting for the blow that she was certain awaited her. The man- Lamar, as Red had called him, stiffened in surprise but did not seem over-come with anger yet.

"I meant no offense, I assure you,' he said quietly. "I meant only to say that you must have a name, even if it is not often used." She eyed him apprehensively before answering awkwardly,

"My name is Charlotte."

"Charlotte," Lamar said, rolling the name around upon his tong. "It is a lovely name. It suits you." His kind tone gave her a new level of courage to speak.

"And what's that s'pposed to mean?" she asked sharply. Lamar shook his head.

"I meant it naught but that I like the name, Mademoiselle," he said evenly. "You needn't be coarse with me."

"Men are with me," she answered shortly.

Lamar remained easily calm-rather compassionate. He knew that behind her defensive words was a wounded girl seeking only to protect herself.

"I am not one of those men," he assured her. "Please, I am offering you my hospitality and my clothes- the least you could do is accept the offer." She glared at him.

"You s'pect me to be puttin' on fresh clothes when I'm streaked with dirt and stink like a cursed pig?" Lamar started. He had not thought of that, though he supposed he should have. He nodded.

"Please forgive my carelessness," he said. "I shall call for a bath at once. I will have it brought up and leave you to bathe and dress. Call me when you are finished." He stood and exited without any farther preamble, closing the wooden door softly behind him.

A bath was brought in quickly, warm water from a container poured into the wood barrel to warm the cool water already within. The servant bowed politely, excusing herself. Charlotte stood and stripped down immediately, slipping into the warm bath with clumsy eagerness. How long had it been since she had had a bath? Four months? And even then, it was a half-done job, a wet cloth rubbed against her sore, bruised skin to rid at least the worst of the smell. The warm liquid seeping into her skin tingled pleasantly, the dirt dissipating into the water around her.

She sat for a moment, simply enjoying the pleasure of soaking, then began sudding up with the bar of soap the maid hand led beside the barrel. She washed her body with leisurely strokes, taking extreme pleasure within the feel of it all. After a time however, the heavenly water began to cool, and her skin rose in small goose bumps. Standing, she reached for the towel also left and dried herself, fascinated by the way her skin glowed a cool crème where before it had been a dingy off-white color, tinted with dirt and sweat. How amazing it felt to be clean!

After drying herself thoroughly, she donned the large shirt that Lamar had set out. She opened the closet door to peer into the mirror she had clanked when he opened the wooden doors and nearly laughed at her appearance. The white-ruffled shirt came down to her knees, hardly lifted by the small breasts of a thirteen year old girl. The neckline was wide upon her shoulders, one side threatening to slip off, but did not.

She snatched the pants and pulled them on, glaring down at them grimly. They did not even touch her thin hips. Pulling them into an unsatisfied bunch at her side, she shuffled through the too-long legs and creaked open the door to find Lamar sitting to the left of the doorway.

"They're too big you biggot," she said testily. He looked up at her confused, but then his eyes widened in realization and his face spread into an amused smile. He chuckled.

"Please forgive me, I'd forgotten that factor," he said. "Assuredly I shall remedy this. May I?" he indicated a request to get through the door. She opened it, her full mouth in a pressed line.

He stepped through and rummaged within the drawers of his dresser before exerting something. He turned, as she closed the door and her eyes lay upon the thick belt that he held in his hand. A pure ice coal dropped into her stomach and she backed up instinctively, her heart racing.

_No, no, no_, she thought desperately_. Please, not again. Please_… flashes of memory blinded her as she skittered backwards….

"_The bite of your tong should be dulled," a cruel voice said coldly. "Let's see just how long your spite holds up against the leather of my belt, shall we?" _

She hit a chair, knocking it down as Lamar advanced. She noticed not that he did not hold the belt ready to strike.

_The lash of the belt whipped down upon her back viciously, the buckle snatching small bits of skin from her back…_

She tripped over the hem of the pants, causing her to fall, striking her head upon the wall.

The bang to the head seemed to knock the girl back into sense, her eyes no longer delirious, just frightful. Lamar kneeled before her. She shrunk back, her sharp wit seeming to have left her entirely. Her eyes remained fixed upon the belt that he held in his hands, revealing the source of her fear. He sighed, noting that the pants hand escaped they're wearer entirely, but grateful for the girl that the shirt was so overly-long, hiding the hair between her legs from sight. He had sighed one too many times tonight, each time to no avail.

"Charlotte," he said, making his voice as gentle as possible. "Here, see I hand the belt to you. I mean naught to hurt you with it. Do with it as you will." He kneeled and dropped the belt into her lap. Charlotte jumped violently, looking at the long object as though it would rise up and bite her as a viper would. He stood half- kneeled, looking at her patiently. Slowly, she reached into her lap, and he relaxed in relief, glad to see that perhaps she would see he did not wish to hurt her.

Instead, Charlotte looked at him with hate and a determined need to escape blazing within her dark eyes. She leapt to her feet with a frenzied movement, knocking past him. She ran for the door, but Lamar was upon her before she could wrench it open. He held her shoulders, attempting to stop her from running into the hallway that was filled with naught but men- half of whom, despite their jobs as police, he did not trust.

"Please, Charlotte!" he begged. "Don't-"

His words were cut off when, belt remaining in hand, Charlotte turned in a desperate motion and whipped the buckle around, catching his cheekbone painfully. He stumbled back more in surprise then pain, half expecting to find her escape through the door, but rather found her driving towards him, belt raised violently, ready to strike. Instinct gripped him to grasp her arm and twist the weapon from her grasp, but his heart told him otherwise. He turned his back to guard his front, instantly feeling the angry smack of the cold metal buckle biting deeply into his skin through the shirt. Again the belt struck, slicing the skin stretched across his spine, the bone promising an ache later. Again. Again. Again. Over and Over Charlotte beat him with the belt until he literally fell to his knees in blind agony, feeling the blood trickling down his back and sides. Even then she creamed blasphemous words and phrased as she swung the belt with all the strength she could, clenching down upon the chance to finally be the one to beat down another. Anger, hate, and pain drove her unsighted of Lamar's bent form, unaware of the tears that streaked his cheeks, of his teeth biting into his lip to stop himself from calling out and drawing attention. No, none of that did she noticed... all she saw before her were the men that had taken their wrath and wrapped her within it, binding her with pain and fear.

Finally, her weak body gave out the will the swing the heavy belt any linger and she fell to the wooden floor sobbing desperately, hating, fearing. Lamar gasped for breath through his choking tears of agony, his back roaring in pain, knowing that his shirt was surly permanently stained red with his blood. He sat for a time unmoving, biting his tong to keep from crying out softly every time his body shifted. Finally, his back became only a throbbing pain rather then a raging one and he managed, just barley, to force his body over to Charlotte's own huddled form, her sobs racking her body furiously. Wrapping his arms around her unresisting body, he let his tears of physical and emotional pain fall into her damp, blond hair.

"My niece," she whispered softly, painfully into her blond lock,. "My poor, beautiful niece."


	30. Chapter 30

Christine stared soul-lessly ahead, numbing aware that her body was wracking back and forth with a man's shaft chaffing in and out of her unloving passage. She had fought at first, as usual, but by now, she had unlocked the tricks of the trade- if a trade was what it was to be called. Fight in the beginning, get them, excited, then let them have their way and don't get in the way. Don't be submitting from start to finish. That brought more beatings to attempting to rile you up. But don't fight the entire time either- it distracts them and then it takes longer. Unfortunately, this knowledge had raised her in the favor of the men a few, long, agonizing weeks. _Raoul._

In the past few days she had found that if she melted into daydreams of Raoul making love to her, rather then whoever the brute upon her was, it numbed the pain slightly. If things held out too long for her to continue envisioning such an act, she would fade into pleasant memories of her happy, stress free days with Raoul. A thin memory of the day she had first seen Raoul after so many years in the opera flitted into her mind. She thought of how he had greeted her in her room and hugged her ad told her how well she had done. Oh how she did miss singing! She had hoped to start after returning to Raoul some day but…

Returned to Raoul from Erik… Erik… and little Margareite. She had found herself missing the girl desperately, just as much as she missed Erik. She hated the fact that she found Erik and Raoul rivaling for whom her heart ached. She did not love Erik as she loved Raoul. It was a different love. One she did not understand. A love that-

The man grasped her by a fistful of hair, disengaging himself from her uncomfortably and rising, jerking her to a stand beside him with a sharp pull on her hair. Her knees quaked, and threatened to buckle, but she forced them to obey her mind, steeling herself for the walk back.

…._Raoul…Erik…somebody….please get me out of here or let me die…let me die…_

Erik, Margareite, and Raoul, unhappy group as they were managed the next few days without extreme happenings. Slight annoyances and the occasional snap occurred, but otherwise, Raoul remained distant from Erik and Margareite who all but happily ignored him but to give the man food; and even then, Erik refused to let Margareite near the man again to no protest of hers; she trusted the man as much ashes he would trust and angry serpent not to bite.

Anxious as they all were to find Christine, Erik had wrestled arguments with Raoul, who fought for the prospect of rushing in and taking Christine away. Erik had argued back, forcing Raoul to listen to his point. Who knew what kind of defenses the place had? Margareite's scars proved that they carried knives if not more, and without knowledge of the number of men there at one time, they could easily be out number and killed, Margareite taken back into service.

"Why don't you ask her then?" Raoul had bitten out, throwing his arm in Margareite's direction. Erik's eyes had flamed momentarily.

"Because she is not ready to talk about it yet, Viscount," he had snapped.

"But Christine is ready to be rescued!" the Viscount countered.

"Do not try to force things you know nothing about Viscount!" Erik had snaked out. "You've no idea the horrors she has endured. I do not blame her for not wanting to come within fifty feet of that place."

"And we do not know what horrors Christine faces!" Erik closed his eyes tightly at these words, forcing out visions of Christine's precious body being beaten viciously. Gods knew he wanted to make Margareite talk, to save Christine but logic drove above all other things; it must, lest he allow madness to once again swamp him. He could not allow that. If madness were to overcome him again, he would have no way to ensure Margareite's safety. No...No… keep the madness away…logic first.

"I will not," Erik had nearly shouted the last to words, "force her to talk. So stay your arguments or leave this place and find her yourself." Raoul had stayed silent since then, never speaking, hardly glancing at either Margareite or Erik.

Now Erik gazed upon Margareite s she composed her music stiffly, snatching warily looks at Raoul every few bars, his threatening action earlier that week had cut deeply into her. Erik doubted that there was ever going to be a way for her trust him now. Watching her with love and concern shining in his eyes, Erik debated is latest idea. There was no knowing when she would be ready to talk. HE knew she was trying; there were many time when the girl had fought to speak, but nothing would come out. It was as though her voice would literally shut down and render her a mute until she found a different subject to speak upon. But any other subject was a rarity now, so the girl remained mostly silent. So until she was ready to talk, Erik could receive no information about these men; he had to find some other way. Now he contemplated leaving and searching out information on his own. The dilemma was weather or not to take Margareite. He dare not leave her- the child feared DeChangey far too much. She would most likely permently fuse herself to his side before allowing him to leave her with the fop. But he would not leave Raoul alone in his home. Gods knew what he would possibly find there without Erik to guard him…his coffin; his old sketches and paintings of Christine…no he could not allow so much of his private life, the darker side of his mind, to be left open to Raoul's prying eyes. However taking the both of them with him would slow him down utterly. He sat back, sighing. Margareite snaked another look at Raoul, who sat dejectedly in the chair, staring into the lake. It never failed to amaze Erik that he held the Viscount in his grasp and yet did not hang the boy.

But what do with Margareite? He feared that bringing her into his little investigation could jeopardize her life and his chances of discovering any information. And Raoul…well Raoul he could send away back to his home until he had the information he needed… but then, who needed the Viscount fumbling in the way? It would be easier to leave the man waiting in his home. That was perhaps all his rich breeding was good for. But Margareite… who could he leave her with? Nadir perhaps? He had not heard from the man in ages; he was not sure his old companion still lingered in Paris. But no, even it the man did, Margareite would be uncomfortable with a man… who then…who? It would need to be a woman…one he could trust…was Madame Giry still alive? Or did her death rest upon his shoulder in the fire?

"Viscount," Erik snapped, watching Raoul jump with surprise, turning disgruntled eyes upon him. "Does Madame Giry still live?" Raoul's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Yes," he answered. "Christine talked with her often." Erik looked away from him, nodding.

"Margareite," he called. The girl looked up from her music and stood, striding over to him. Her eyes were already apologizing. He shook his head. "I am not going to ask you to speak of them, do not worry Ma Chere," he assured her, placing his hands on her shoulders. He felt her relax beneath his fatherly touch. "Until you are ready to speak of them- no, no, no," the girl had tipped her head again in apology, and he turned it back up with two fingers. "I do not blame you. But until you are ready I need to see if I can discover any information outside of you. I am going to leave you with a dear woman I knew very well. She is kind and will care for you while I am gone." Margareit's eyes became frantic and she shook her head violently.

"No, Erik," her genius voice sounding her age for once. "I don't want to leave you. I want to be with you." Erik stroked her cheek lovingly, his clear blue eyes warm.

"It will only be for a short while," he said. "I promise to come back to you every night while you are staying with her, but I can not have a child once in the trade tagging along- it will arouse suspicion." The girl's eyes turned cold.

"And perhaps something else," she said in her midnight velvet tone. Erik shivered slightly. That tone never ceased to make him uncomfortable, reminding him that she could snap at any point; he knew that madness curled in the back of her mind as it did his, smaller, but it was there. He could see it when she smiled those sickening grins that were more grimaces. He looked at her with a confused look. She simply stared at him, refusing to answer any farther. He sighed.

"I promise to come to you every night, Ma Chere," he promised her again, kissing her forehead. He looked again to the Viscount who stared at them with utter confusion.

How was it that a child trusted that thing so completely? He had only known the creature as a murderer and a kidnapper; now he was a father. Or masqueraded o be. He was still at a loss of explanation of how Erik had come to care for a child such as this, but he did not ask for explanation; he doubted that he would receive an answer.

"Viscount," the thing addressed him coldly. "You are to return to your home until further notice."

"What?" Raoul objected. "No! I am going with you!"

"No," the Creature snapped back, "you are not. I do not need a young fop in my way." The two men locked eyes dangerously, anger snapping between he two. "You will stay until I tell you that I have discovered what I need. You are going to tell me how to find Madame Giry, and then you are going to leave. That is the end of this conversation Viscount," he spit the last sentence viciously, cutting Raoul's arguments short. There was no use in arguing and he knew it; grudgingly, he told the Thing of Madame Giry's whereabouts, then stood to leave, glaring at the Creature. He strode over to the edge of the lake, heading for the long staff used to propel the gondola.

"You are not to use my gondola, Viscount," the Creature ordered. "You can swim well enough; that has been proven. Now make like the fish that you are and swim."


	31. Chapter 31

Christine fingered the new forming scar along her groin grimacing when she traced a tender spot. She almost laughed bitterly when she glanced down at her body and saw the wreckage that lay before her eyes, her skin baring free skittered cuts and bruises. Then she stopped. She had nothing to laugh hatefully at- not the way Margareite id. Margareite's body had been worse then her own; she only prayed that she would not face the pain that Margareite had when they had brought a knife between her young legs. She choked a half sob, bringing her knees up to her torso and resting her head on them, clenching her fists tightly, her nail biting into the deep freshly scared gouge she earned the night she had been kidnapped. I hate men; stinking, violent, unmerciful, sons of bitches… I hate them, I hate them, I hate them, she thought crudely. I hate-NO! Her mind scolded sharply. You cannot sink into Margareite's hell .I cannot… I will not. Not all men are like this… Raoul… Erik…Father… no not all are evil. Only this bunch of sliming, bitching bastards.  
And yet insomuch as she tried to argue with herself, her daily hell threatened to over throw her sanity with pure hatred for not just the men that abused so many women around her, but the male half of the human race as well. Reason began to flee from her mind, her thoughts only of pure hatred. But she could not fight back enough to escape and she well knew it; her body was too frail, her passionate hate strong but her will to act upon it week.  
Much as her mind became a heated den of loathing, her gentle nature remained, and she played it out for the women when they were returned after their services were served. She had especially come to favor the young girl, Kassandra. At first Christine could not get the child to speak no matter what conversation she tried to strike up and she found herself utterly confused at the girl's silence, and slightly hurt. However with nothing better to do but work at the project of trying to communicate with the girl, Christine continued to offer a gentle voice. Then came the day when the girl was thrown into the room with such force a loud cracking as the girl's head slammed into the wall caused Christine to fling herself at the door in a small spurt or strength.

"You son of a pig!" she spit, raising a hand to strike the man across his rough cheek. The man grasped her wrist painfully, jerking her before him and bringing his knee sharply into her gut, then proceeding to backhand her to the floor, adding a good kick after that for a good measure. Grunting, he slammed the door behind him, Christine dimly aware of the sound of the padlock snapping shut. It took her a moment to gather the air within her body again, her ribs promising a large bruise in the evening, her stomach swearing off the stale bread for a full two nights at least. After filling her lungs with air many times, she brought herself to crawl over to Kassandra, the child's bruised and broken body unmoving by the wall. 

"Kassandra?" she touched the girl with a light hand upon her shoulder, gasping when she felt the bone move beneath her fingers. The child's body vibrated with a groan, but no sound followed, tears streaming down her dirt streaked face, silent sobs wracking her body. She couldn't stay in this position, Christine thought to herself. I have to get her in a more upright position. "Kassandra, I'm sorry but I have to move you. You can't stay this way." She looked into the girl's lifeless green eyes, overflowing with pain; the olive green orbs begged her not to move her, but Christine bit her lip and gathered the girl up halfway in her arms, not having the strength to carry the girl. She gave a small jump when she felt the bones of the girl's other shoulder ripple beneath her hand, the bottom half of her body completely limp. The child let out a scream that marred her already ruined face, but no sound came. The girl had no voice. It as not that she didn't want to talk, she could not. Otherwise her scream of pain would have sounded in an ear piercing cry.

"Oh gods," Christine whispered as she propped the girl's limp form against the torturously splintering wall, Kassandra gagging, but not vomiting, between noiseless howl of agony. Christine knelt next to her pitiful for wishing desperately that Marti were there- the child reacted most when she spoke. Her body was a disorganized lump, the bones of her shoulders no longer forming shoulders, sticking out at odd angles; her torso sat in a weird way that told Christine that it had been snapped, paralyzing Kassandra from the waist down. She looked at Christine with death in her eyes, sorrow biting deeply into her heart. The girl was not going to live.  
At lack of anything better to do, she moved next to the girl grimacing when a sliver of wood embedded itself into her back and brought the girl to her. The child convulsed with pure misery, but bit her lip; to what avail due to her silent voice, Christine wasn't sure, but she knew she wanted to be held, her eyes imploring a kind embrace. She straightened Kasandra's body as best she could, the child unable to hold back the occasional yowl that escaped her useless voice box. In a way, her wordless, utterly soundless wails brought Christine to despair more then one would have if voiced. Kassandra had had to endure her days a mute, unable to voice her pain, her hate, her heart. Christine shut her eyes tightly at the hate the blackened her sight. Well she would give the child a voice- she would sing her sorrow, her pain, her heart. She would give the child what she could never have.  
The notes started uncomfortably, rustily within her throat, slightly rough with a touch of breathiness. She stopped, shaking her head. Erik had given her a voice once in a way that no one had-she had to keep that in her mind to give this girl a voice. She faded momentarily back into Erik's lessons so long ago… such peaceful days those were... so peaceful… her heart was torn then, but at least her body was not. 

…one with the music… listen to the beat of your heart… it is the base rhythm for all song… listen to it…feel it…let the notes be your heart, your voice… song is the only thing that exists in that moment… nothing else matters but you and the song…

And so Christine sung low and long, her soprano stretching into the lowest ranges, digging for the sorrow that lay within her heart. The song swept into a melody of suffering, of a heart unspoken for…the music became a language all its own. Her heart beat wildly within her ears, pumping the blood viciously, vengefully within her veins, her breath coming deeply, as though she were exhilarated by some ecstatic joy…she had not let herself break into so long she had forgotten the feeling of flight as the notes soared and dipped; the feeling of freedom merging with the heart of a small child mutilated brought her to tears, her voice remaining strong through the need to sob. She sang for what seemed like forever, wrapping its spell about the two bodies. Some time later, Christine felt the girl's body give one last shudder, and the life left her eyes, leaving the dead green orbs staring at Christine. 

Lamar's back had begun to scab over, though it still hurt to twist his torso. He lay on his bed now, face down, grimacing as Charlotte patted her fingers across a reopened wound.

"Jesus child!" he hissed through clenched teeth. "I'm not a stone you know. My back can still feel things."

"Apparently," she bit back in her crisp tone. "Although the way you complain I'd think your skin were tender as a babe's if I didn't know any better." Lamar's mouth fit into a tight line.

"Oh and you could stay your voice better?" he snapped. He stiffened when he felt her hands still upon his back. He bit his tongue, immediately regretting his words.

"That's all I did for my entire life, Lamar," she answered coldly. "Don't you dare be sneering at pain. It is not somethin' to be sneered at."

"I know," Lamar answered softly. "I meant no offense. Please forgive my careless mouth." His niece was silent, but her hands continued to lay ointment upon his sore back.

His niece…after the night that she had whipped him brutally with blind rage, she had become utterly devoted to him, but she also bit out with her sharp tongue at will. He often found himself smiling wryly at some comment or another she made. He had not been surprised when he found that she was literally stuck to his flank like glue, refusing t leave his side except for his private needs. Even when undressing for the night, she unabashedly shed her clothes ( this, she explained when he had blanched at her movement to slip into the bed nude, was the result of years being naked and she felt uncomfortable sleeping in cloth of any sort but bed sheets). Despite her refusal to be embarrassed by nakedness, he refused to sleep thus, always wearing some kind of underwear. Whenever he heard her sleeping deeply by his side on the other end of the bed at night, he mumbled his thanks to whatever powers that may have been in higher worlds hat she had a strong heart that allowed her to bounce back as well as she had from her life time of abuse.  
Now he sat up, slipping on a shirt over his newly treated back as a knock came at the door.

"Come in," he called as Charlotte washed her hands in a water bowl. A young officer entered, politely nodding curtly.

"Sir," he began, his voice cool. Lamar's eyes saddened at the knowledge that this young man would be hardened by his twenty first year. "A man here to see you."


	32. Chapter 32

Lamar's eyes squinted as he eyed the hooded figure a6tthe face of the stairs. He was of average height, taller then Lamar by an inch or so and was slightly bulkier than himself, the light cloak hanging tightly about the body. Charlotte padded silently behind him, her hand gripping the back of his shirt a few steps from the man.

"Good evening, Sir," he greeted formally, catching Charlotte's hand in his own, her grip nearly causing him to teeter backwards. "To what do I owe the honor of your unannounced visit?" His tone was polite, but coolly warning; an unannounced guest was an unwelcome one so far as his years as Sergeant had taught him.

"Let us talk in private, Monsieur," the voice answered from beneath the over-hanging hood. That voice was familure. His jaw clenched when he recognized it as Charlotte's hand bore down painfully on his, her breath sharp and shallow at his shoulder.

"Very well, sir," Lamar answered stiffly, "Please." He motioned to the man to walk before him, not trusting his brother at his back. "My office door is just to the right; it has my name upon it. Give me a chance to make myself presentable?" The hooded brother stood for a moment, unseen eyes boring into Lamar, then he stepped forward suddenly, his mouth beside Lamar's ear, Charlotte jumping back.

"You should not bother with such a pleasantry for your brother, _Christopher_," his voice whispered harshly into his ear. Lamar clenched his fist violently at his side. No one had called him by his first name since childhood…only Andrew would dare do so; even Red, despicable mean as he was, knew the consequences of using his first name. But Andrew… he was sure of himself; he could overcome Lamar and well knew it.

Charlotte watched Lamar's body stiffen at whatever Andrew had whispered in his ear. Andrew… what was he doing here? Why talk to Lamar of all people? Had she not escaped the wrath of these men after all?

The man's formidable form had struck her immediately with a memory of Andrew, the most notorious of the Kingrea Group for his cruelty. He had been the one that broke her wrist once; he had also been the one that had whipped her as similarly as she had Lamar. The hooded man's face raised slightly over Lamar's tense shoulder, cold mud-brown eyes glinting in the lamp-light at her. Her heart skipped a beat painfully, making her clutch at her chest, desperately trying to catch her breath. This was not just a man that resembled Andrew- it _was_ Andrew.

Erik slowed Caesar to a trot as he neared the breaking of the higher and lower point of Paris, glaring out from beneath the hood that his milk-white mask. The building changed abruptly from fine two story homes to shack-like excuses for houses. A few random whores, mainly older ones without business, passed his dejectedly. One stopped to look at him curiously, setting him on edge.

"What makes you stare so, Madame?" he asked gruffly. She shook her head, turning away and shuffling away. Erik's head jerked, following her with his eyes when a sudden thought struck him. "Madame? Madame!" The woman turned and looked at him with unsure eyes. "Please Madame… do you know of the Kingrea Group?" The prostitute's eyes widened with plain fear creeping into them. She shook her head violently and turned sharply on her heel, disappearing into a dark ally. Erik stared after her, not entirely surprised by her reaction; he was miffed slightly, however that she had proved worthless. He slowed the snow-white stallion to a pain-stakingly slow walk, looking about him. This was proving pointless. Wandering about mindlessly in this stinking muck that stung at his nose the farther he rode into it did nothing but waste precious time that Christine could be saved in. A woman's small cry sounded somewhere, but it was so faint, Erik was unsure he had heard it. He listened intently, but heard no sound again. Growling, he jerked Caesar's head sharply, causing the great white stallion to snort in surprise, and kicking him into an agitated canter. Better to go first to the authorities, see if he could perhaps squeeze any information out of their pathetic patrols.

Christine listened to the sound of heavy hoof falls, glancing at the shadows of a horse's thick legs in the gaps of the wood, her tears flooding silently down her cheeks as she held the dead girl in her arms. For once, she was glad that she was alone; normally she found herself longing for the crude company of Marti and Mary, quiet as the later was; but now she found herself grateful for the quiet that allowed her to hear the footfalls of a lone rider.

The pounding of the horse's hooves became an extremely long, slow paced stride, passing the shack that trapped her in this living hell. _So Erik had thought _he_ had existed in a living hell?_ She thought bitterly. _He should see me now_. He at least had music, the freedom to haunt the opera house, had the freedom to create the angelic music with his rapturous voice… his beautiful, catching voice…

"Madame? Madame!" Christine's head snapped up painfully. Was that… that voice… it couldn't be… and yet… "Please Madame, do you know of the Kingrea Group?" ye! Yes it was! None but Erik could carry a melody in his voice without consciousness of it... not so smoothly... Erik… Erik…

"Erik..." her voice was weak now from singing with more effort hen she had ever given on stage…it was barley a whisper. No... No she could not let him pass… this was her chance to be saved! "Erik!" She managed to force her voice to a fairly audible volume, but when she tried again to call for Erik, it cracked. She fought again and again to scream for him, her heart beating furiously, desperately pumping adrenaline through her veins. "Erik!" but her voice was dead. _No!_ She begged. _Erik please hear me! _

But the horse's snort sounded outside the shack and his hooves bounded away…away…away...

_NO!_


	33. Chapter 33

Margareite looked around herself tentatively, the small, but well furbished apartment looking rather daunting to her. The wood frame work was a rich mahogany, shining with smooth polish, the wooden paneled floors mostly covered with intricately patterned rugs, most with tassels on the end. To her right, just ahead of her, was another room, a sitting room, she presumed, with equally as rich wood-carved chairs. The curtains were pulled back by a golden rope, the maroon and goldenrod shades matching the rest of the house, the rugs rarely holding any other color. Two women stood beside the doorway, one older, severe looking, her black dress tight about her neckline and waist, her hair pulled back into a tight bun that brought out the sharp contours of her face; her eyes however, were soft and kindly, smiling at her in a way that her lips did not. The young one, perhaps Christine's age, maybe a little younger, had blond hair, half pulled back and falling about her shoulders in a yellow shine of locks. Her dress was a simple one, light paisley blue without any details or patterns. She did smile at Margareite, gently, her clear blue eyes naive in a way hers had not been since being a toddler.

"Welcome, MaChere," the older woman said, her voice cool and controlled, but not unkind, a heavy cultured accent flaunted within it's tone. "The Opera Ghost-"

"Erik," Margareite interrupted her. "His name is Erik. He is not a ghost and he is not a creature. He is a person with a name and a heart." The woman looked at her, unruffled by her interruption, but approval shone in her eyes.

"Yes, Erik," she corrected herself calmly. "He has left you to my care and has promised to visit you every night. You are free to do what you like to entertain yourself so long as you do not tear down my home." Her lips twitched slightly with a smile. "This is my daughter Meg. I am sure you two will find each other great company," she nodded to the blond woman's direction. Her smile widened a bit in acknowledgement, but she said nothing. Margareite smiled back politely. "You may call me Madame Giry, as that is what I am used to. Erik tells me that you have quite the sharp mind so I expect to find conversation with you quite easy to carry on. The only rule is one set by Erik- you may not travel outside." Maragereite shook her head.

"I would not wish to," she answered softly. "The outside world is far too excited for me."

"You prove Erik's words well." Meg's eyebrows rose slightly in surprise at the girl's firm take on speaking, but sad nothing. "Meg will show you to your room. The lanterns are about to be lit on the streets, I would expect Erik soon."

Maragreite nodded and looked to Meg, who smiled again at her. She turned and walked gracefully down the hall, Margareite in tow.

"So you have become a daughter to the Phantom?"

"Erik," Margareite emphasized. "Yes, he is rather like a father to me." Meg nodded.

"It must be rather exciting to know him," she said, her voice curious. Margareite smiled to herself; over time Erik had told her of the different dancers that he had found particularly amusing. Meg had stood out indefinably, as Madame Giry's inquisitive daughter that was rather gossipy and loved a good mystery.

"I supposed you could call it that," Margareite answered. They topped at a door to a small, finely furbished guest room, the bed small with brass bars and a soft down of feather quilts, two of them, one folded down to the foot end of the bed. There was a desk and a chair, and paper and ink upon the surface. A bedside table upon which a lantern stood lit sat next to the bed. Maragreite's breath hitched.

"This is where I'm staying?" she asked breathily. Even in Erik's cave-like home, though Erik had shared everything he had with her, there had only been one bedroom, one bed. She, even then, had never really had anything to herself but the clothes that Erik provided, the products of his trips out for supplies.

"Yes," Meg answered. Everything in this room is yours until further notice." She smiled at the amazed look on the girl's face. "Erik has left your clothes with us- they're in the closet to your left. If you get hungry, feel free to go to the eating room, there is always a little bread or some other tidbit to tide you over." She paused as Margareite leapt onto the bed, reveling in the feel of the light quilts. "The Phan- Erik," she corrected herself; it felt odd calling the Opera Ghost by a human name. "Erik is supposed to come visit you tonight?"

"Every night," Margareite answered. Meg took a breath. The Opera Ghost in her home every night! If only some of the other ballerina girls could hear about this! But, no. Her mother had instructed firmly that no word was to be spoken of the Opera Ghost or his goings about that she was aware of.

"You…you don't think perhaps I could meet him?" she asked tentatively. Margareite looked at her sharply, eyes narrowing.

"To what avail?" she asked coldly, her Oak Eyes shining with protective energy. Meg was taken aback slightly by her quick defense of the Phantom and played with her skirt.

"I… have grown up with stories of his mysteries," she said quietly. "I have heard different things about him; it was not until recently that Mother told me that he was a real person, not a ghost. Now I wish to see the one that inspired nightmares in my sleep as a child." Margareite's eyes softened and she nodded once, stiffly.

"I'll see what I can do," she said coolly. "But I promise nothing." Meg nodded her understanding.

"I'll leave you to your sleep then. If you need anything, my room is the door to your left across the hall." She turned with a smile and left, shutting the door gently behind her.


	34. Chapter 34

Erik slithered through the shadows of the apartment belonging to Mdame Giry, silent as viper. He passed the first door to his left where the length of bedrooms began, it's door cracked open slightly,a soft glow emmiting from inside. He peered in carefully, observing Madame Giry, bent over her desk writing on some document. Her hair was down, it's light mouse-brown shade sparkled with silver streaks of aging. She wore a simple but elegant night shift of black cotton that boasted still finley toned ballerina calves despite her age.

He slipped through the door without making any announcment of his presence, and placed himself upon the bed with the lightest of material shifts. Erik sat, poised and straight,waiting for her to pause in her writings, to look behind herself and jump in surprise. But she didn't. He cocked his head somewhat characteristically like a dog watching something curious.

"Margareite is housed in the third room to your left down the hall, Monsuier," Madame Giry's voice caused him to start himself, but she did not even hesitate in the rythm of her quill scratching.

"Very observitive, Giry," he said in his most cultured tone. The two had only ever conversed in the most appropriate and polite tones; that feel about their communication still hung in the air between them. "I had thought that I could surprise you."

"After years in the opera house, Monsuier," the woman answered, "I have become accostomed to the change in the feel of the air about your presence."

"And what, prey tell," Erik asked smoothly, "would that change be?" Now Madame Giry did stop writing for a moment, stroking her jaw with the tip of her feather-quill, thinking.

"It is a feel of power," she said after some hesitation. "Power..and even your breathing carries a musical rythm, a melodous quality. I came to reconize your breath patterns with sharp ears in a room full of people; it is no surprise that I would hear it in an empty, silent room." Her quill was dipped into ink once again, then started scratching upon the parchment.

"Interesting," Erik said thoughtfully. "I never considered such a vice."

"I would not call it a vice, Monsueir Opera Ghost," Giry said casually as her proper tone allowed. "It is a characteristic that one should highly prize."

"Perhaps," Erik said ore to himself then in reply. He shook his head forcefully. What was he doing wasting his time withmindless chatter about his breathing? He had to visit Margareite as promised and continue in his search for information if, he once again, could not extract any from the girl. He stood without an explaination to his sudden exit and slid out of the door just as silently as he had entered.

Had she said the door on his left or right? Both rooms that sported a golden light from within were the third door down on it's side, one only slighty farther up the hall then the other. Sure that Giry had said Magareite was on the right, Erik opened the door swiftly, soundlessly, closing it as a ghost behind him. He turned, expecting to find Margareite gazing at him with those amazing, steady Oak Eyes. Instead he found hmself looking upon the sleeping form of Meg Giry, her blond hair shining in the candle light. Her lips were slightly parted in calm sleep, releiving Erik enough to allow himself a breath when she did not stir in her sleep at his presence.

Little Meg Giry, Madame Giry's only child. She had been a gosssipy one, to be sure, but it was to be expected on her young age when Erik had paid any special attention her her goings about. She had been entertaining, somewhat humorous in her manner as a child and teenager. Always a bouncy little spite, constanly making those around her smile. She had been quite the dancer, her slim, small body graceful as a swan upon the waters of a lake. She had not had the draw that Christine had, however, and he had found himself only fond of her innocent, bubbly nature. She had grown quite a bit since he had last looked upon her, the sheets about her body fitting her well enough to show her slight curves and bustline had been filled in well with growth. He shook himself mentally, clenching his jaw. Why did he linger through all of this?

He ghosted out of her room to the only other room serving home to another. This time, he found Margareite, but she was not staring at the door expectantly, although it was aparent that she had been at one point, a book held loosley in her hand, her head lolling to one side in relaxed sleep. He strode lightly to the bedside, smiling down upon her sleeping form. He brushed his hand over her thick brown hair, leaning forward to lay a gossomer kiss on her forhead. The girl awoke with a start, her large doe eyes sparking happily at the sight of him, throwing her arms about his neck with a tiny squeal, carelessly tossing the book to the side.

Erik smiled gently, scooping her up and sitting upon the bed himself, cradling her in his arms as she attempted to strangle him in a choke-hold hug. He chuckled when she let go.

"You'd thin you hadn't seen me for a week," he said in a slight whisper.

"It feels like it," Margareite agreed, then her smile faded.  
Erik sighed gently, reading her unspoken words.

"I didn't discover anythng," he said solomly.He paused, wishng he could clear his throat, but didn't for fear of waking Meg across the hall. "Margareite...try..try for me..try for Christine." Margareite's eyes now swam with tears that threatened to spill over. "Please...Margareie, I'm here. Those bastards won't touch you again. I swear to you...just please try, for Christine's sake." He averted his eyes, unable to look at Margareite, knowing he was asking something of her that was close to impossible. He hated pushing her; it made him sick of the stomach, but he had to try, for Christine.

Margareite watched as his eyes averted, her own vision blurred with unshed tears. She bit her lip, mustering all the courage and strength she had. She had tried ths so many times, and so many times she had failed. What made him think she could force her voice now? She bit her lip harder, almost peircing the skin as she forced her mind to form a planned sentence. Taking a deep breath, she gathered herself for a scream, knowing hat nothing but a whipser was likey to escape, if that. She skrewed her eyes shut and attempted to shout for all she was worth; her ears raored with a soundless pounding, her blood pumping visciously in her veins.

She opened her eyes, looking at Erik, begging him to tell her she had excerted some useful bit of information. He looked at her blankly, sarrow biting at her from his eyes. Nothing.  
How was it that these males' rules of silence followed her even now? They bit down on her togune like a gag bit on a horse, ripping up the cheek when pulled on harshly, forcing the horse submisssion. She bit down cruely on her lip again, tears leeking down her cheeks as she buried her head in Erik's shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she whispered hoasrly, relaxing into his fathering grasp. In less then a moment, he felt her even, deep breathing beneath his fingers; she had fallen asleep.

He held her gently, sighing. She had tried; it was the best the girl could do. It was a mental block, ofcourse. She had been raised-abused- her entire life to be silent in the presence of the men. That was not a easily broken law. Closing his eyes, Erik laid his head upon hr own lightly, stroking her hair. Best set out in the early morning, before light, escape to his lair below the destroyed opera house, catch some sleep, then set out again in the evening. Night was far too short; day too long, too harsh for him-

Margareite's door opend slowly, a slight hand pushing it open. Erik's heart pounded heavily; it was not Madame Giry, she would not inturupt his visit with Margareite. It was little Meg Giry. He stiffened, unsure of what to do. Margareite's deep, stressed sleep caused her to be oblivious of the intruder; no matter how quickly he moved, Erik would never escape Meg's sight.

"Margareite?" Meg's voice was smooth, gentle. "Why were you crying?" She rounded the door, stopping coldly in her tracks at the sight of Erik.

Her breath caught at the sight of him, pearl white mask covering the right side of his face, his eyes sharp with wariness like a stray animal trapped by humans, fearful, but threatening.He clutched Margareite to him somewhat protectivley agaisnt his perfectly tailored suit. He was a large man, six feet tall atleast, surly taller, his sturdy frame almost menecing, but deceitfully gentle in the way he held the girl in his arms.

She was frozen in place, her heart racing. So this was the Opera Ghost; The Phantom of the Opera. This was the one that so many had feared and told stories about. This was the one that had inspired nightmares...and day dreams. She had always been slightly jelous of Christine, of her adventures. OF the secret Angel, the Opera Ghost that had stolen her away for love. She had spent many a lonly night holding the mask she had secreted away from his lair the night of the fire, hiding it beneath her pillow, stroking it's smooth serface. She wondered, momentairly, if the mask he wore now had the same texture...

She slapped herself mentally, shaking herself out of her stupor. The Phantom man now before her was stiff with uncertainty, drawn as far into the head of the bed as he could without disturbing the child.

"Mon-monsueir Phantom," she stuttered clumsily. "I...I...have something for you." The Opera Ghost's clear blue eys shifted uncomfortably at thesewords. "Ehm...just...just wait here one moment." Meg scurried out of the room in a flash, diving to her bed and pulling out the mask from beneath the stark white pillow. Perhaps if she showed that she had kept the mask...wht? What would it show him? That she fantasized about him? Still, something compelled her to return it to him. She flung around the door with a racing heart only to find Margareite sound asleep beneath the covers of the bed, a single rose with a white ribbon tied to it next to her on the the pillow.

The Phantom was gone.


	35. Chapter 35

Erik cursed himself violently. Damn. Damn, damn, damn. The girl had seen him. Now gods knew who she would tell. Giry's daughter or not, she was still gossipy he was sure. Well, there was nothing for it now. He had to focus on finding more information. There was still at least three more hours before sunrise. Sighing, he headed off for the police headquarters, riding Creaser's trot stiffly. His jaw clenched as he thought over what he was about to do. Talk to police… the men that had once attempted to hunt him down and kill him. But then, he was not just going to walk up and ask outright about the Kingrea group. No, it would have to be the head man.

"Go back to my room, Charlotte," Lamar had ordered her quietly in her ear. She had shaken her head violently in turn.

"I won't leave you alone with him," she whispered back sharply.

"Do you think me so unmoralized that I might sell you to him?" Lamar asked gently. She shook her head again.

"He is a dangerous man, can't you see, you thick headed son of a dog?" she answered coldly, glaring at the towering man that stood a short distance away. Lamar placed an assuring hand on her upper arm gently. He thought to comfort her; but there was no comforting her. He was unaware of the memories that this man brought flooding back to her. He did not know of the pain this man had caused her.

"If he does anything there would be nothing you could do," he said firmly. "He is my brother… I know him well enough. I will be fine, Charlotte; now please, go back to my room."

"Yes," Andrew's chilling, drawl-like voice sounded, his yellow teeth gleaming beneath the hood that covered his face. "Go back to dear _Christopher's_ room. He and I need some alone time."

Charlotte shot darts through her eyes at Andrew as Lamar's face closed over with a stone-like vengeance. For one reason or another, Lamar hated the use of his first name- and Andrew knew that reason. He knew it and he used it to his advantage. Charlotte gripped Lamar's shirt front desperately, forcing him to stare her in the face, some head lower then his own.

"I _am not_ leaving your side, damn you," she muttered, searing her mahogany eyes into his grey ones.

"Such a mouth on so little a creature, eh?" Andrew slithered out. Lamar has turned sharply on his heal at these words, twisting out of Charlotte's grasp. "That was the only little dear's vice: her tongue was a sharp one that very often got her into trouble. Not like that half-bitch sister of hers; now there was a prize. Beauty already at her tender age and a completely silent mouth." Charlotte's insides ran cold as fiery ice, her heart beginning to pump furiously in rage. Her sister had only been six the last time she had seen her- six and as beaten and ravaged as the older women of thirty that were kept in that shit-hole shack. She swallowed painfully, wondering what had ever happened to her half-sister, but not daring to ask.

"You should watch your own tongue, _brother_," Lamar bit out sharply. He turned his head slightly to speak over his shoulder at Charlotte. "Fine. Stay. But if anything goes wrong I want you out of there, do you understand me?"

"Unfortunately," she snapped back, never taking her eyes from Andrew's menacing form. Lamar snapped his gaze back to his brother in the most unloving fashion one could imagine, his eyes filled with the loathing of this man that stood before him like a higher being.

"Make you way to my office, Andrew," he said icily. Andrew's slimy smile beneath the hood turned into a broad sneer.

"Surly you wish to lead the way?"

"I do not trust you at my back," Lamar answered forwardly, his body so tense charlotte was sure that he would break if he moved. "Last time I left you at my back, a blade bit into me." Andrew chuckled lightly, clearly enjoying the memory.

"Yes, well brother," he said venomously. "I would not trust myself at my own back." He turned on his heal and entered Lamar's office without ay farther preamble; there had already been too much so far as charlotte was concerned. She shivered at the thought of being in an enclosed room with this man again, but shook herself; if she failed to protect Lamar from Andrew it would not be for lack of trying.

The three entered Lamar's rich-wooded office, Andrew immediately throwing off his hood and making himself at home with the box of cigars on the desk. Lamar growled lightly, snatching the box away as Andrew lit one, breathing in a drag leisurely His dark brown hair was obviously naturally curly, but the grease that shone in its locks made it stringy; he had charlotte's eyes however. Wide and would have been a beautiful mahogany brown if it were not for the dull evil that lay vivid in their coloring. Lamar tossed the box of cigars to the far side of the desk and sat stiffly in his chair on the opposite side of the desk, Charlotte standing by him tensely.

"What do you want, Andrew?" Lamar lanced straight and true, waiting impatiently for a reason to kick the man squarely in the arse and send him on his way.

"No," Andrew drawled. "It's what you want that matters." Lamar's eyes turned into hating slits.

"What are you talking about?"

'I hear tell that you're looking for information on the Kingrea group," Andrew spoke softly, dangerously. Charlotte's jaw twitched in unease; she didn't like the tone that leaked from his mouth.

"And if I have been?" Lamar asked suspiciously, eyes glittering sharp flint-grey. "Do you know of them?"

"First off, dear Christopher," he grinned maliciously at the way Lamar's eyes twitched, ignoring his second question, "I want to know why your looking for information about them when you obviously have quite the little pleasure bitch right here," his cold, mud-like eyes glanced at Charlotte. Charlotte made a sharp move words the man, but was restrained by Lamar's hand on her wrist behind the table. He squeezed it gently, warning her to stay her ground. Andrew's smile wrinkled his nose as it widened into the baring of teeth as he trailed his dirty eyes upon her. "She seems to care for you a great deal, Christopher. Tell me, exactly how do you use the little wench?"

"How I use my women is none of your business, Andrew," Lamar spat. Andrew's attention was drawn back to his brother, whose vein stood prominent on his neck.

"Yes, well I suppose it isn't," Andrew answered. 'However if you ever wish to sell her…" his voice trailed off lustfully. Lamar's voice was a deep grumble as he spoke.

"She is not now nor will she ever be for sale." Andrew's mouth closed only to quirk up in a knowing smile that made charlotte sick.

"Very well, brother, very well," Andrew said calmingly to no avail. "Now, do you wish to tell me why you're questioning about the Kingrea Group?"

"Two of my women have disappeared; I want them back," Lamar answer roughly. Charlotte's body was trembling slightly now; the air I the room was thick with hate ad malice. "I've hear an ear bit that they take unaccompanied women off the street. Thought perhaps they might have them."

"That depends," Andrew answered. "The Kingrea only take the best off the streets; we've no use for maggoty sluts barely earning their food."

"We?" Lamar's voice was sharp at this word. "You mean to tell me that you're part of it?" Andrew nodded, his sneer returning, along with his wrinkled nose; charlotte resisted the urge to strike the man senseless for simply making such an obscene face.

"Quite so, brother," Andrew said, nodding. Lamar clenched Charlotte's wrist painfully, not realizing just how hard he squeezed in his anger towards his brother. Charlotte squeaked slightly as a sharp pain speared momentarily through her arm. She could still use the wrist after it had been broken, but it was still easily pained if pressured or worked too much. She it her lip, immediately regretting her let on to the small pang of pain. Lamar glanced up at her, then down at her wrist and relinquished his hold quickly. Andrew smirked as he laughed heartily.

"Ah, the wrist still pains you now and again does it?" his voice slithered up her spine as he focused al of his slimy attention upon her. She shivered drastically as a flash of memeory blocked her vision mometarily. A sharp backhand across her face as punishment for biting. An iron-strong grip upon her wrist and a searing pain as he snapped the bone and the sickening, wet sound as the bones cracked and splintered.

"You," Lamar's voice was no long restrained. All of his anger, hate and loathing was given its head as he stood violently, the chair falling backwards with a clatter, causing Charlotte to jump. She grasped his arm desperately.

"Lamar," she said in a begging tone. "Don't." Andrew chuckled, still laxing in the chair easily.

"Yes, Christopher," he said. "Don't cause uproar now."

"I'll cause all the uproar I damn well please, you sack of horse shit!" Lamar shouted, making to round the table, shouldering past Charlotte and snatching his arm from her grasp. He strode to the still apparently defenseless Andrew, who remained seated. Lamar raised his fist, his breath ragged and angry, preparing to swing a punch with all of his being. He was stopped short was something round and cold pressed against his chest.

Erik strode into the candle-lit lobby, its gleaming wooden floors and panels resonating with the low mumble of mummers. He tugged his cloak closer about him, hanging his head under the hood, hiding away from the candle light. Even now, after all this time, and after many a trip to the outside world under his hood, he still felt his heart thump heavily around other citizens. He stopped at the main desk behind which sat an older woman, her hair in a tight bun, strands sticking out in odd places, her clothes slightly wrinkled.

"May I help you Monsieur?" she asked in a bored tone, uninterested even in what lay beneath the heavy black hood that his face.

"I wish to speak to your Sergeant of Police," he answered shortly, blood racing. He hated being but among people. Crude, evil bunch, the lot of them.

"Fifth door from the bottom of the stairs," the woman answered, pointing aimlessly in the direction of the office.

Erik did not even nod, but simply strode to his destination. His breath was short as he neared the door labeled "Sergeant Lamar" in large black letters. Gods knew there was a possibility that he was still a wanted _creature_. Would they arrest him on the spot-?

He paused as he heard the muffled shouting of a man's voice, and the small cry of a woman- and then the click of a gun being cocked. He froze, heart seeming to stop momentarily, painfully starting up again when he heard another cry form a girl, not a woman, and it was scared, but not hurt. He almost sighed to himself and he strode determinedly to the door. How did he manage to get himself into these predicaments?

He opened the door without a single knock, taking in the scene before him. A young girl, a dark blond, almost strawberry blond, watched as two men, the one in the chair slightly larger in build then the other, however he was the one defending, the somewhat smaller man creating the assault. The girl looked at him with wide mahogany eyes that struck him momentarily senseless. Perhaps only a shade lighter, but Marguerite's eyes stared at him from the girl's face. Shaking himself, Erik grasped his Punjab lasso, preparing himself to through it around the assaulting man's neck. The two men struggled, unaware of his presence, the gun caught between the two hands, both men baring their teeth in utter hate.

Erik aimed his rope with his eyes, his wrist ready to flick the lasso around the top-man's head, but froze when the gun rang out loud and clear.

Charlotte's vision was obstructed momentarily by a pure white wall of fear. Her mouth tasted salty, and she realized she had clamped down upon her bottom lip, a thin film of blood running into her mouth. She heard a groan that brought her back to her senses. Her eyesight cleared and she gasped, flinging herself to the ground next to the laden man.

"Lamar!" the man looked up at her with confused eyes, they're warm grey coloring pained, but not dull. She scanned his body frantically with her eyes, heart pounding. Blood seeped from a wound on his side, but it was not yet pooling on the ground about him.

"Stupid bastard," Andrew's voice rasped to her left. Her head snapped up at him, glaring.

"You're the bastard, Andrew," she spat. "You're nothin' but a slimy snake that's more a cowardly bag of shit then a man!" She stood in pure rage, taking a step towards Lamar's brother, but stopped when she heard the gun click in cocking again.

"Do you want to face the same fate as your dear Lamar?" Andrew drawled, lazily aiming the gun towards her.

"Not if you don't meet it first, Monsieur," a smooth, melodious voice answered. Andrew had apparently been unaware o the intruder. His head snapped about, only to cry out in surprise as a robe bound itself about his neck. He was still for a moment, but then he began to laugh.

"You forget I am the one with the gun, monsieur," he smirked. The rope tightened, causing him to gag. The heat of the intruder's face came close to his own, but then something cold and smooth touched his cheek as the man whispered in his ear,

"Yes, but I am also the one with your neck in my mercy."

Erik pulled the rope tightly with the all of his arms' strength, listening to the man gag, just as the man in the alleyway had six months ago. He was loath to admit it, and a cold stone dropped into his stomach at the thought, but it was a sweet sound to hear one choking again in his grasp. The man fumbled distractedly with the gun, his choking causing him to be unsure of his hands. Growling, Erik looked at the girl sharply.

"Take it from him, child!"

The girl looked at him with wide eyes that still caught him off guard when he looked directly into them. They were so like Margareite's! His hands slackened, and then ma beneath his Punjab lasso took a desperate breath. Erik immediately jerked the rope taunt again, snapping at the girl,

"Take the gun now! Do you want us to get shot?"

Finally, the girl regained her wits and lunged forward, grasping the gun and snatching it away from the large man. Erik pulled the rope even tighter, if it was possible, surprised the man had stayed conscious this long. Pressing his hand to the back of the man's head, he pressed it forward, forcing more pressure on the man's Adam's apple. It was then that the large man finally fainted, limp and heavy.

Erik quickly made his way to the fallen man, placing two fingers against his neck. The heartbeat was fast; good, that meant he wasn't dying. However, he could need care.

"Charlotte?" the man's neck rumbled beneath his fingers as he looked about the room. The girl immediately knelt to her knees at his side.

"I'm here Lamar."

Erik almost smiled when he recognized the connection these two shared. It was like watching himself and Margareite. He looked at the girl now, taking in her detail. Young, but older the Margareite; perhaps twelve or thirteen. Blond hair, almost a red tint to it. Strawberry blond. And those big, brown eyes. Not quite Oak eyes, but Mahogany Eyes.

"He'll be fine, mademoiselle, but he needs care," Erik said soothingly. "Let me take him where I can care for him."

"I'm not leaving him," the girl- charlotte- said with a sharp tone. Erik smiled.

"I wasn't implying as such," he said gently. "You are welcome to come with him, but his wound needs to be cleaned soon before infection can set in." Charlotte looked at him with uncertain eyes, but then nodded.


	36. Chapter 36

Christine clamed down on her tongue, focusing on the pain of her teeth cutting into it instead of the agony that the man forged upon her lower back with a knife. No tears leaked from her doe-brown eyes; tears had long ago dried up, her ability to cry, to sob- numb. The pain however, still managed o wretch upon her like a rabid dog after a rabbit.

It had been so since the night of Erik's voice. It had sounded in her ear as music from an angel. He was an angel really. An Angel of Music. It mattered not if he had deceived her- he had been the Angel of Music. The beautiful, unearthly voice that had filled her sleep and days still clung near and dear to her heart. That beautiful, alien voice, a sound unlike any would ever hear again once their ears had set upon his vocal splendor. Yes…yes… he was the Angel of Music. But he was not a saving angel. No. Not her savior. He had murdered in her name, threatened to kill the man she loved; now he failed to save her when he was so very, very near.

A cold pit dropped into the burning thing that was her lower stomach; he had failed to save her- failed to redeem himself in her eyes. Yes…yes…failed.

And Raoul? Where was Raoul? Attempting to find her? No, she doubted it. Before he had sat within their lavish home waiting for news of her. Most likely, that was what he did now. Sat the house, and waited.

Had they forgotten her? Had they all forgotten her? What of Meg? Or Madame Giry? Did any one of them remember her? Remember anything? The top of the line performer that she had been?

How ironic that she should g from Diva to sex slave in a matter of six months. How ironic indeed. Ironic and sick. But then, who wasn't sick in this world? Even she questioned her sanity now.

"Get up, bitch," she was dragged to her feet by her hair, now matted and greasy, feeling the fresh blood trickle into the crevice of her back and over her buttocks, a few trails managing down her legs like snakes. In a way, she almost savored the pain now, the sting, the throb of the blade or hand; it allowed her a way to release her anger and misery without having to do it herself. "Now stand against that wall."

Christine moved against the wall without complaint, feeling the man press his large body against her roughly. More out of boredom then spite now, she snapped at his shoulder listlessly, hardly bothering. It did the trick however; she could feel his repulsive manhood bulge harder against her lower stomach. And her womanhood again knew the agony of hell.

Margareite woke to find a single rose, a white ribbon around its stem next to her on the baby-blue pillow that comforted her head. She smiled, closed her eyes again, and stretched, yawing. She opened her eyes again expecting to find Erik sitting at his organ, and perhaps Christine beside her on the satin and velvet blanketed bed.

Her heart sunk heavily when she remembered where she was and why she had been placed there. Erik was not here. Quite possibly in his lair, sleeping; he did not like sunlight. Christine…oh gods, Christine…she was being abused, raped, violated in ways no normal person could imagine. But Margareite could.

She dressed herself silently and solemnly, depression slamming into her like a bag of bricks. She exited her room quietly, after extinguishing her oil lamp on the bedside table and made her way to the small dining area. Madame Giry had already laid out muffins and milk and was biting politely down upon a muffin of her own. She nodded once to acknowledge Margareite's presence, making a gesture with her hand towards the plate at the end of the table. Margareite forced a thankful smile and sat down, eating without a word.

The food was like cotton in her mouth no matter how much milk she gulped down, her throat tight. Was there nothing she could do to force herself to speak, to help Erik in his search for information?

Meg opened her own eyes, feeling the cool, smooth surface of the mask still clutched in her hand. She had slept fitfully after the Opera Ghost had left, waking at the smallest of noises, thinking-hoping- that it was the Phantom come to claim his mask…and possibly more. She closed her eyes again momentarily against her thoughts. She had such a guttural mind at times!

She dressed herself with mixed feelings; in one way she was exhilarated to finally meet the Phantom of the Opera; in another way she was slightly depressed by his unwillingness to stay in her presence. Not that she blamed him. All she, or anyone else in that opera house, had given to his name was slander and legend. She, however, hand secretly fantasized about the Opera Ghost. She would not speak for all, but she was almost positive that most of the ballet rats had as well. If the girl did not fear him as they would an evil demon, then they fell into fantasies late at night about being taken away by the Phantom.

Meg extinguished her own oil lamp and walked out into the morning-cool hallway. She tip-toed across to Magareite's room, daring to pray that perhaps they phantom was there again, but was not surprised when she did not find him there. She was surprised however when she found that Margareite was already up. She padded to the dining room to find her mother and the girl eating their morning tides, a plate set out for her across from her mother, diagonally from Margareite. She stared at the girl in curiosity. Did the child have any clue what had taken place this past night? That Meg had in fact, seen the Phantom? Did her mother?

If either had any knowledge of the matter, neither spoke of it. Meg sat before her plate and began her breakfast absent mindedly, her thoughts running over her memory of the previous night.

Those eyes. Those beautiful crystalline blue eyes; The one behind the mask however, had speared out prominently, nothing but darkness surrounding it. Is ha had a square jaw and a slight cleft chin, his aburban hair slicked back tidily. And his hands; they had been ungloved in his handling of Margareite, their palms large in proportion but sender in the piano lengths of his fingers. Christine had once told her that his hands flew over a keyboard like a bird across the skies, exquisitely graceful and amazingly quick.

Christine now entered her thoughts as they had not since shortly after the fire. Her mother had told her that Christine was well, but would tell her nothing of what had happened after the Phantom had stolen her away during Don Juan Triumphant. Nor would she allow her to see her old friend after that.

"It would be a painful reminder of her past," her mother had said when Meg had requested to see Christine. "And I do not wish her any second thoughts for her decision. The Phantom is not one to be teased or trifled with."

"But surly he is dead?" Meg has asked with a curious frown. Her mother had shaken her head and answered briskly that Meg was not to inquire any farther.

Meg snapped back t the present when Margareite set the glass down with a slight clink. She eyed the girl curiously. How was it that a young girl, scarred and exceptionally smart, came under the care of the Phantom f the Opera? How was it that such a young girl had managed to gain his trust while others had not?

Giry snatched unnoticed glances at Margareite, wondering, worrying. Christine, the poor girl, was kidnapped by horrible men, from what she understood. She snorted quietly to herself. She had never been abused or mistreated by men, but she had a certain distain for them; Meg's father had knocked her up, then left her pregnant and wanting for money. The current ballet mistress of the Opera House during that time had taken her in and allowed her to instruct until after Meg's Birth. Soon after, the mistress had handed over her authority to Giry and moved to Australia for retirement. After that she had rarely known a man that was much better then a snobby upper-crust man, or lowly stage hands that were mainly perverted, however harmless.

She watched as her daughter stared unabashedly at Margareite. She knew her daughter well enough to understand the questioning in the young woman's eyes. How had Margareite come into Erik's possession? Giry was in no way prepared to explain any of it to her daughter; the Opera ghost had trusted her with the very private matter and she intended to keep it as such. Anyone not understanding the story between the young girl and the Phantom man would wonder how the child had gained his trust; in reality, however, it had been quite he opposite. He had had to gain the girl's trust. That in itself had endeared the child to him; for once, it was not the idea of the poor man wondering if he could accept them, knowing that they would not run at the sight o his deformation. It was the question of weather Margareite would accept him, despite her mental scars. She was happy for the Opera ghost; perhaps maybe, someone but herself could accept the phantom for the exquisite creation that he was.


	37. Chapter 37

Erik grunted as he lay the large man upon the red-covered bed, Charlotte working equally hard t situate the Sergeant of Police on the bed. The two sat heavily upon the bed themselves once it had been accomplished, breathing heavily. Erik sighed beneath his hood, still hanging far over his face, fighting to catch his breath as he gazed upon the now unconscious man. He supposed it was a bit of a mercy; he didn't envy the man the pain that wound threaded. Too many wounded and sick people had been laid upon this bed in less then a year.

"Lamar needs to loose some pounds," the girl said across the bed from him. Erik couldn't help but let his mouth twitch slightly.

"Any limp form could use a few less pounds," he answered. He glanced at the girl to find her staring curiously at him. Those eyes were so similar to Margareite's that they were giving him chills; the same chills that Margareite's voice gave him when she spoke in that velvety black tone.

"Why do you hide beneath your hood, monsieur?" Charlotte asked, snapping his attention away from her eyes momentarily, but he was soon caught up in them again. He stammered slightly, shaking himself and forcing his eyes away, looking at his feet.

"I wear a mask that many would inquire about; I do not wish to face such questions and curiosities," he answered in a neutral tone.

"Why wear-"the pre-teen began but was cut off when Erik cut in sharply.

"I do not like such questions Mademoiselle," he snapped, watching her reaction in her eyes, knowing that she would back off from her curiosity. She had seen him strangle a man unconscious; he knew that she had no doubt that he could do it again. What she wasn't aware of was the fact that he would never lay such a harmful hand upon a woman. However if that suspicion stopped her from wondering about his mask, then he would be loath to tell hr as much. "Now, excuse me while I clean his wound," he said more gently now. He was surprised when the girl's eyes fired up and her face became sharp.

"I will clean his wounds monsieur," she said in a flint-like voice. Erik was extremely taken aback by her controlling voice, her commanding temper. So much so that he nodded dumbly.

"Very well," he said in a slightly dazed voice. He took a quiet breath, gathering his wits again. "Water and fresh cloths are in the cupboard next to the bed." Erik shook his head disbelievingly at Charlotte's wild temper as he exited the room.

The mysterious man left the room with the confident grace of a wildcat, sure among his Lair. She stared about her now, taking in the oddly formed home. She was inside a cave for God's sakes! But a finely furbished one to be sure. The man had a cursed organ! She shifted to look about the room, pausing at the feel of the fine sheets she had laid hands on. Not that she had laid her hands upon many sheets in her life time but that did not stop her from reveling in the feel of such material against her rough hands. The smoother of the two kinds of sheets that let her hand slide over it like a snake over grass reminded her of the horse on which the man had led her and Lamar on first.

They had traveled the majority of the way by the horse- or rather, she and Lamar sat the horse while the man led it. She had been slightly frightened of mounting the snow-white beauty. It had been a magnificent creature, it's shoulder a head higher then her own, it's body sturdy and supremely muscled, it's neck thick and it's chest broad and mighty. The stallion's majesty had been crowned with a thick fall of wavy mane and tail, the forelock hanging in its chocolate brown eyes. What a gorgeous creature it had been!

Charlotte looked into the cabinet beside the bed, pulling out a water basin and fresh terrycloth squares. Unbuttoning Lamar's shirt, she peeled the blood-soaked material away from his side. It amazed her that one could be so very fit his stomach muscles hard and flat, his chest broad, but not overly-muscled. Never had she laid eyes upon so physically well a man. She smiled at her throats. One that did not know of her past would think she craved incest; No, no, she thought to herself. But a well formed body is a rarity that deserved to be admired. Again she set about to cleansing his wounds; at least this time she had not been the one inflicting them. Andrew. She fought the urge to growl lightly.

The wicked man's reasoning for being there had remained unknown; not that she particularly wanted to know his slimy reasons for visiting his brother; however she was worried that the man had been up to something. Such curiosities however would be pointless if this new man involved had strangled him to death. She had been uncertain if the man had died of suffocation or if he had simply fainted. She shivered, remembering the sound of the man choking desperately; she shivered anew when a memory four years old over lapsed her thoughts.

…Marian gagged with sickening sounds as Andrew twisted the wire mercilessly about her thin throat, pulling murderously upon the thick cord. Charlotte watched desperately, fighting to reach her best and only friend, but she was restrained by a laughing bulk of a male.

"Let 'er go you sack of cow shit!" she screamed at Andrew as he grinned maliciously as Marian choked and scratched at her neck. He looked directly at Charlotte, his evil grin turning into a teeth-bearing sneer.

"Would you rather be in her place, wench?" he drawled. Charlotte lunged forward in hatred, wanting nothing more but to tear the man apart with tooth and nail. Her guard however kept a bruising grip on her arms, locking them painfully far behind her. "Perhaps one day I shall grant your wish of such an end…"

…Lamar came to painfully, feeling fingers press into the bullet wound with an angry pressure. For a few moments all the man could do was be aware of the pain, far too groggy to complain. It was charlotte's angry mumblings that brought him to a fuller conscience. He groaned as she practically dug her finger into the whole ripped into his skin.

"Christ, child," he mumbled gutturally. "Are you trying to make that wound worse?"

Charlotte gasped slightly, seemingly unaware of how hard she had been in cleaning the wound. She gave him an apologetic look, then her face smoothed over into its ironic mask.

"Should I try to?" she asked in a flitty tone. Lamar narrowed his eyes at her.

"Only if you want a slapping on your backside," he answered n a warning tone. As with many times, his own sharp tongue had gotten him in trouble with his niece once again. The dabbing at his wound forced harder onto the tender skin, causing him to gasp.

"Whip my backside if you will Lamar," she said in a sharp, unloving tone. "But do not expect me to return to your care."

Lamar's heart sunk at the thought and he lifted his hand, grasping her ruined wrist not too much worse for work, gently, stopping her frustrated movements.

"I meant no such thing," he said in as even a tone as his stinging side would allow. "You whipped me once, and I consider that my payment for being able to keep you with me. I will never lay an ill hand upon you, do you understand?" He locked her mahogany eyes with his grey ones, refusing to release her gaze until she answered positively. She glared at him in irritation, and for a moment he thought sure that she would retaliate, but then she nodded stiffly, just once.


	38. Chapter 38

Andrew hissed venomously, glaring at Red, touching the raw skin about his neck tenderly. Red looked at him from across the room, seated on a threadbare chair that squeaked with moth-eaten age. The strawberry blond man sucked at a cheap cigar heavily, contempt sparkling in his dirty green eyes.

"You let Lamar take the wench!" Andrew's voice was quiet, but dangerously so. "There was a reason I allowed her into your hands, you bastard!"

Red stared at him with an emotionless face, though his eyes gleamed. He flicked the cigar, ridding it of dead ashes and placing it back in between his ruined teeth. He did not answer for a moment, enjoying the pleasure of causing his brother strife.

"He offered more money then you did to keep her away from the others," he finally answered slowly. "It is no problem of mine if you 'ave problems with your business. Tha' besides, she was mine to begin with."

Andrew's mouth curled into an angry snarl, fist clenched. His knuckles ached for the impact of a good swing to Red's pathetic jaw. The man had no idea what more problems he had just caused by releasing charlotte into Lamar's care. His teeth ground fiercely as he thought of the consequences of this turn of events. The child had not been born in the business; her real position would prove dangerous if revealed.

"And you gave her to _me_," Andrew spat, body tensed. Red's blank face now spread into a wicked sneer.

"And then you gave 'er _back_ to me," he said mildly.

"That bitch child carries _her_ blood," Andrew said sharply. "You do realize what that means if that is discovered?"

"That you loose all money an' name?" Red answered sneeringly. Andrew's temper loosed momentarily and he stood, suddenly, striding forward and slamming his hands down on either side of Red, who had not flinched an inch.

"No, you dim-witted son of a dog!" he bit out, angry spit drizzling Red's face. "It means that if I am caught because of you, I will personally see your eyes picked out by hand, your tongue sliced out and your entrails spread on the floor by dogs. Do you understand?" Red's rotten teeth gleamed ugly yellow in the candle light of the room as he spit back at Andrew.

"I understand that you carry more secrets then I think you even be realizin'," he snapped. "She may be of _her_ blood, but she is also of mine. I don't know what your connection is to her that Charlotte's life is so important to you, but I can be promisin' you that your life ain't worth even half a cent of Charlotte's and that's saying something, considerin' that I sold her for two hundred francs."

Andrew bit down violently on his temper, forcing the raging beast to bow its head. Killing red would do him no good. He already had enough blood on his conscience. He turned sharply on his heal, grasping his cloak and swinging it about his shoulders. He stopped at the door, pausing, then turned abruptly to face Red again, his face contorted.

"If you ever- _ever_ meddle in my affairs without discussing them with me first," he hissed with a passion, "understand that I will reveal _your_ connection to Marti." Red stood sharply, rage flowing through him with a will, growling. Andrew turned without another word and closed the door behind him sharply.

Red growled in his pure rage and threw the rest of the cigar at the door, hating his brother with all he knew how. That was quite a bit. He threw himself back into the chair heavily, thinking desperately.

Martelli. The bitch was the key to all of their problems, excluding Lamar. Her blood ran with the sweetness of the aristocracy; Charlotte's did as well. An odd connection the two had, that was definite. But what did he care what their connection was? All he knew was the need to keep the fact that Martello was his sister a secret from the others. Lamar knew, Andrew had made it all to clear that he knew. But the others?

There was a strict rule among the Kingrea Group that they take only those that would not be missed or traveled unaccompanied, and even those sparingly. If any of the others found out that Marti was his sister…he shuddered. The connection could mean death. A death possibly worse then the one that Andrew threatened.

Margareite hummed to herself quietly, coloring absent mindedly. Or so it appeared. In reality, she scratched down a scribble of complicated, uneven notes which she hummed to herself. In reality, she was anything but absent minded at the moment. Silent tears ran down her cheeks that only one peering at her face could see in the dim morning light. In reality, her careless child-like demeanor was crumbling inside of her.

It was all her fault. She should never have let Christine leave the Lair, never let her return to Raoul. If she had cried any more, begged more desperately then maybe, just maybe, Christine would be safe right now. But she wasn't. No. Christine was trapped by monster-males. Twenty of them at least that had brought themselves to a regular name basis with her. Well, the called her by her first name of choice; he had never used their names and had only known a few by accident; Red, Andrew, Michale, Rory, Francoise, Richard…

Not that she had ever had any draw to even want to know their names. The only draw she had was to fall into dark oblivion and never come out; anything to escape those creatures. They were like sick and diseased wolverines that were determined to slice out your life before you even had a chance to escape. And once they had you in their sinister claws…Margareite shuddered. Once they had you, they were like pit bulls intent on the kill. There was no escaping their wrath nor the feel of a thick (or sometimes rather small) rod of abhorrent skin between your legs and slam into your soul as a demon ravaged your body…

Margareite stopped the scratching of her quill, choked and blinded by her thoughts. She knew better then to allow herself to think upon her past. It always tortured her if she allowed herself to think too much. The skin remembered phantom pain between her legs, her neck recalling the harsh chaff of fraying rope around her neck, her thighs feeling the slice of the knife on their delicate flesh.

Margareite let out a short cry now, unable to keep her thoughts away from the haunting demon fingers that insisted on prying into her mind and reminding her viciously of the pain those monster-males had caused. Flickers of memory on her skin twanged and stung, rage swelling up inside of her desperately. She released another strangled cry, standing and throwing the quill with a will across her room at the wall, spattering ink onto the off-white paint. Snarling, Marareite ripped at the stack of papers before her, but upon discovering them too thick to easily rip, she flung them off the desk, splaying the sheets upon the floor. She looked down, desperate to find anything else she could throw in her anger-

Then stopped. She looked down upon a map beneath a glass covering, set into the desk; a map of Paris. Her breath came short, staring at the winding streets and buildings. There was the Opera House… where was the verge of the higher and lower parts of the city? Her eyes searched franticly, following the names of the buildings and streets. Every now and again, the men would take her out on the streets (they were those that were not quite wealthy enough to afford a fire-warmed room as others were) to receive their services, allowing Margareite snatches of glances at street signs.

Where was Toulouse Street? Her fingers rand swiftly over the glass surface, hand shaking. Where, where, where? There was Auch Street, but where was Toulouse? She bit her lit irritated, sure it was here somewhere… if she could show the map to Erik then she wouldn't have to speak it, or even write it! It would already be there for him, to lead him there! Where, where….THERE!

She had found it, heart thumping, the urge to jump up and down in joy lying upon her, but she held her feet to the ground. Maybe if she could tell Madame Giry to get to Erik and deliver the message… he would not have left his Lair just yet. He had visited her not five hours ago, her attempts to reveal anything having failed once again. But not this time. No. she would be able to help this time.


End file.
